First to rise just after dawn, I wander through rooms in a part of town most people wouldn't volunteer to live in. Bitter cold again - the coming new year is a big question mark - not entirely lamentable, it just is.

 

Motes of dust float across the length of the room, suspended in wan light through frost on the windows - they rise on unseen currents, and then, simply disappear. 

 

rinsing out

yesterday's cup --

winter solstice

 

high above

the Macy's parade--

a black swan is floating

 somewhere in this village

two clocks tick-tock 

through the haze

light snow --
the bird's tracks turn
toward spring

 the rain ceased 

wayward wind through the trees

 makes it fall again