November 29, 1988
A dry, cold wind, full of hushed hisses, blows with the angry breath of a frustrated wolf at long dead and brown leaves.
A haunting rustle filled with the ghosts of ages passed and faces I can barely recall as I huddle against the chill rain, a wet that pastes down those leaves that do not fly away, some even frozen to dock or the walkway above from an over night dip in temperature, the crystal edges of frost still clinging to them despite an effort by daylight to warm the air.
Death stretches is long fingers over the earth and everything around me dies, or stirs up in preparation for that long sleep they (we) are never sure they will wake from, the illusion of immortality taunting them, and me, as I sipped coffee and look out from equally lingering dreams.
Rain, slanted and sly, hits my cheeks in pretense of tears, biting my flesh with the threat of snow, and I know as I walk that the snow will come, a shroud over this brown body and this gray city, and this sad river, with no words of mourning or hope, just that vague promise that somewhere beyond the darkening days and the long terrible and bitter nights, a new spring will come, and we strangers walking along search for stars in the clouded sky that might bring us to some manger, some sense of salvation in the midst of the darkness of nights, hope beyond hope.