THE HERALD

Today the snow confronted us for awhile, blasting at windows, working itself into cracks and seams. We listen to what it says because this is the winter it has failed to arrive, except in insignificant bursts. Does it forecast something new, a trend, or does it tell us that any season can be odd ? We strain our ears as the wind calls at us through the windowpanes.

WIND COMES

This is no zephr; it comes high pitched and loud, howling over the balcony, banging on windows. If it had a voice instead of a whistle would it warn of tomorrow, would it tell tales of broken ships and disassembled bridges, would it tell us of something it discerns, gotten deep from experience plummeting toward us from the sun. If so, would we listen? Right now, I am forced to hear.

BALMY DAY

Snow belt, and no snow, temperate weather, a sun too warm for winter. I stroll inside a premonition, I know not whose or what, only that there is something strange in the air. It settles in a half fog on the horizon, as though pensive, as though someone forgot to tell it something and it waits for direction and purpose. So do I. There is nothing exact in this day, only a calm, unreasuring misunderstanding, listless, like the shuffle of an old shoe toward whatever comes...