Angel,
The days are hard, cold and bright. It is winter and the winds cut through our coats - the cold seeps into the ends of sleeves and around our necks to settle on our chests. Our breath hangs in the sky before us until it vanishes in a white puff. The cold makes everything harder - the sidewalks, the roads, and metal all seem brittle.
People huddle into themselves and try to stomp the cold out of their limbs. The city is frozen and all its sounds are harsh - it is the time of the year where we grind our way towards days that lengthen slowly. We walk sidewalks can could crack under the weight of our bundled bodies and boots.
We look up at the crystal sky through the bare limbs of trees reaching up to the sun like the gnarled brown fingers of old women. A plea to linger a while and warm us... We look up through leafless branches, squinting our eyes as we turn our faces to the sun. Runny nosed, red cheeked and long thin shadows, we cannot even pretend that the sun on our face warms us because it is immediately stolen by the biting cold. But we will close our eyes as we turn to the sun and let the red of our eyelids seep into our skulls.
Like the trees lifting up to the promise of the sun, we turn and we ask... 'can you stay just a little longer?'. Then we watch the astonishing speed with which the sun heads toward the western horizon - our shadows longer still. The city is hard and cold - and we will have to wait for the warmth. Silently through the dark night, as temperatures drop further, the trees will continue to reach for the sky - begging the suns return.
Until then, we will grind our way through the days - always looking for the sun.
Just me.
