A plump little cloud, sat in the sky like a pillow, has been plucked of its feathers: slowly down the soft down scatters.

Eyed from the window of the office, this little corner of the city is poised for transformation in an instant, like a garden at the change of season. Suddenly to be made of shape and sparkles, simple and pure under arctic white, poised it waits for transformation.

Look, brag the eyes, Look. See how the city is just a pretty snowshaker, sat upon the mantlepiece of the mind, ever-prepared for a sleepy flurry when shook by the obedient fist.

No, answer I, fist, No. The city is just another fist, rammed through the guts of the earth, ever-assaulted by the sleepy, blind and bleeding sky. But with fingers, no matter how cold, flicked out always.