At about eight in the morning (Sunday), low hanging, heavy and almost tangible gray clouds start, like malevolent peppermills, grinding out hard flakes.
Squat dirty buildings cluster around the Morrison Bridge on-ramps as if to seek shelter with the rest of the unloved.
…meanwhile, Sunday drivers discover that... ice is slippery.
When you need flares, you can’t get them.
A portion of the Eastbank Esplanade appears through drawn snow curtains.
Evidence mounts that running is a kind of mental disorder.
Even mannequins rush to the window to see the snow fall.
The winter storm nearly succeeds in creating a cold, monochromatic world that demonstrates how little regard nature has for our dreams and desires, but one individual fights back with a bold red umbrella reserved for indomitable-spirit-of-mankind-metaphor-enactments.
As dusk approaches, the stars come out on Broadway.
Here and there, a warm oasis
…or evidence of renewal
Streetlights blink on to endure the night.
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