I can deal with the snow, but I tire of walking on slush ice sidewalks like an old man worried about his hip. The cold tenses the muscles, well it does mine, as I make my way here and there. It has also made simple chores which require using the van more work. If I leave my well-groomed spot, it's lost, and then I am stuck with the glaciated mounds left by others. Then, the sound of tires spinning effortlessly on wet trash and frozen water, the chipping of grayed ice with my Spear and Jackson, and the blue smoke, the friction-burned odor of vulcanized rubber.
When I forced my way through the crowd at the cave exit of Columbus Circle, beneath that awful Trump gray atlas earth, I popped out my umbrella in smooth fashion while everyone else huddled, wondering what or how it could be. For each step, up and away from the station's cavernous maw, an umbrella extracted, velcro unstitched, a button pressed, and a graciously-sized tarpaulin extended. Alone, I topped the final step, in praise of this vigorous rain.
