I sit in the alley on the low retaining wall, its old grey concrete leaning out toward my knees. There are leaves under my feet, like copper shards, sharp and dry. Winter has been slight this year and, yet, they huddle against the old grey concrete, like a people living in the memory of persecution.
A sprinkling, that’s how this snow has been described, not enough to squeak or groan under the weight of boots. I don’t mind this. I’m happy to tilt my face toward the sun filled sky. But those leaves. What about the leaves?