I stand at the window, looking out, waiting for inspiration to strike.

Rain that is more than rain but slightly less than snow is slanting from the sky.  I watch it catch the light of the streetlamp on its way down to the pavement below.

I didn’t feel much like writing yesterday, and I don’t feel much like writing today. I watch the umbrellas shuffling by and try to figure out why.  My brain’s an inscrutable fog.  But the answer lies nearer to my heart.  I can feel it now—tender, vulnerable.

The tiny frozen drops prick the window as I realize I’m standing at an unwelcome precipice.  My weight is shifting from heels to toes, from past to future.

I think about all of the scenes in all of the movies where characters stand on train platforms and sing mournfully into the camera about the heartbreak of leaving.

I can see that the snow is fighting to stick now.  There’s a jagged dust piling up on the ivy that covers the Broadway median, and the roofs of the cars parked on the street are beginning to frost.  I listen to the first scrapes of shovels against the sidewalks and wonder how long the storm will last.

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