Late November

On a day like today, when the snow coils slowly down from the clouds, and the sky is light brown. The ocean has stopped, the city is mute, and nothing is bright but the whirling teeth of a circular saw at construction.
On a day like this, when the bed is heaped with coats and blankets, scarves and mittens, and I am thickly layered with fleece and wool and silk and the air is alive but still
the littlest birds coast on the least power wings can relinquish, headlong, arcing, everything but falling out of the air

We are all the color of sand and sawdust. Christmas shoppers don their identities, and chickadees fluff up like the ruffs on wool winter coats, and there is nothing like Starbucks for a little comfort, for well prepared housekeeping of the steaming cup, for what one could well do for oneself at home, but hasn't necessarily the private momentum for.