My window turns

on with the street

lamps like a

television.

I watch like an

eight-year-old–

Nose to the glass–

Breath making vaporous

snow angels–

frosted wings on cold

surface from my lips.

I’ve seen this episode

before– I watch

it for the comfort

of the sequence I know–

the dialog of salt trucks

crunching on snow

like sour cream and onion

chips–

the same bundled figures

tottering like hard boiled

eggs–

Hum of the collective

churn of heaters melting

snowflake skeletons–

Hush of the long finger nails

of the wind raking

fallen snow its personal

zen garden.