First Fall

I heard the snow
this morning, through the window
squeaking under tires
velvet crunched on asphalt 
its weight of white 
muffling the throat of engines.

Wary of my ears, I looked out the window: 
snow traveling up and down—
already the branches of the honey locusts
were too burdened to scratch the sky—
Snow loaning
a plushy hood to flat-topped newspaper boxes
and an ermine coat to street garbage
laying down fresh papier-mache
where pigeons printed the language of their hunger. 

The snow whispers in a multitude of flakes
water droplets blossoming
into stellar formations that the cold liberated. 

I heard the snow 
			sigh.

© Marie-Andrée Auclair