The first snow of the winter, a light dusting on the streets and sidewalks. It will look clean a few hours, while New York air works on crusting it with soot. Now, it makes a pleasant scene of the avenue's climb uphill through Harlem. A quiet night. No shots; no sirens scream; no traffic left from rush-hour. Just one car racing stoplights that cascade into green all the way up the hill. Uncivilized -- as if it were some strange electric mountain, auroras reflected from its snowy sides. An idle vision, not something to count on; tomorrow, City will resume its rage. I sip my drink and watch the stoplights change.
Copyright 1995 Edward Gaillard. All rights reserved.