MORNING, BROOKLYN, WAITING FOR SNOW January 2, 2014
The city is silent waiting the storm. Soft gray cloud interior shifts of gulls and pigeons circling the white. Jets roar passed in minute internals a steady stream endless.
That and the white noise machine are the only sounds this morning as if we were isolated in country wild, not one among millions pressed up against one another, houses huddling for warmth jockeying for space, straining for breath against a crush of white gray sky.