The work week wears on and I wend my way through the crowd of phone calls and piles of paperwork on my desk, gazing over the shoulder of Friday afternoon to the scene outside my office window where the sky has turned yellow, the red bricks on the houses, black, and the light at the corner signal rises from bottom to top, green to red, religiously pursuing its pattern, oblivious to the urgencies of those under its care.
I step outside into air heavy and smelling like burnt toast. Cars and people seem to move in a sort of suspension. By the time I get home a light snow is beginning to fall. I fall asleep on the couch in front of the TV.
Saturday morning I awaken at first light, the moon lying against the sky like the last white mint in a deep blue bowl. A dusting of snow sweetens the ground.