The coffee shop is a shelter this morning. Hail comes down as small bits of sticky foam. A velvet cake to bite into with a shovel, moist and heavy. The scrape of shovel on sidewalk when you eat it fresh(It comes away clean from the sidewalk at first, but matts into ice with heavy traffic).
I sit, staring out at main steet, the aching bones of a small town dying into a suburb. My fear of small American towns is strong, places I could die old without sating my aimless ambition. Today, that shadow is dull under grey skies and purpose. The drive back to the beige city stands patiently in my mind as I clatter out a few thoughts. The snow has stopped falling and is gleefully solidifying, spindly tendrils stretched to intimately aquaint passerbys with the sidewalk.