Senses – Winter’s Here

The sky is powder gray with not-powder snow slanting down. The white stuff on the ground is pristine but for the slight indentations of feral cat feet, already filling in. The square rust-colored plastic container is more than half full of grainy but dry cat food.

No sun to gleam and glisten on the snow sheathed bare branches. Only the teasing scent of cold, of ice, of winter air. The scuff of my boots disturbs the white ground and adds sound to the morning landscape.

When I reach the bus stop I stand with two men, vague neighbors. I am early, but I could not settle back into the rich warmth of bed and sleep. We look at each other, but we don’t talk. The snick, slick, slither of falling snow hits my nylon hood. Not powder.

I do not trust this city sleet-snow. I do not taste it. My mouth remains minty from toothpaste. I am an over-civilized woman.

May you use all your senses in your writing today.
Robin