The cold fog masks the lament of the icy wind that somehow found its way through the gray. Bare limbs drool spattered condensation so it seems like it is raining beneath each tree. Traffic appears only to speed off into oblivion, the gray tide swallowing all. Foot-falls seem like a countdown to some suspended surprise. Our pace a metronome to music that can neither begin or subside.
A train wails farther down the road, the flashing lights and crossbar lit within the blur of thickened air. Train sounds carrying that much further in the damp atmosphere, the crush and rattle of that massive passing finding us still kicking litter in the gutter. We continue, trailing vapor, scuffing pads and soles.
Houses creak and buckle, expanding and contracting in material conspiracies poorly considered and ill fitted for the sudden contradictions of the weather. Porch lights and satellite dishes, kitchen windows draped with cobwebs and lace. Cracks in the pavement, an armada of parked cars threatening alarm and speed. Broken bottles and cigarette butts, fast food bags and candy wrappers. The unseen gaze of furtive cats and the bluff report of jealous dogs. This gray daze billows through, seeping into dreams and wan intent, dawn hidden beneath the seams of the unyielding sky.