The air breathes frost. A thin wind beats
Old dust and papers down grey streets
And blows brown leaves with curled up edges
At frighened sparrows on window ledges.
A snowflake falls like an errant feather:
A vagabond draws his cloak together,
And an old man totters past with a cane
Wondering if he'll see spring again.
-joseph moncure march
I shot this feather photograph on a hike last week, not in the city but it made me think of this poem.
Post by Kerry MacLeod : www.snickerdoodles.ca