Sat at my window
Watched the world wake up before me
It snowed all day yesterday and into the night. The apartment is so big and old and the house built so strong that when a storm rages outside you don't know it. You can't feel it or even hear it. Not like my old apartment. I would have been freezing. I would have been like being in a tiny boat at sea. Here, it's like being in a big, old solidly built wooden ship.
And this morning the neighborhood is still so quiet. It's always so quiet here. The most you hear is the Red Line going by periodically down the hill on Newport Avenue. Or you can hear the upstairs neighbor's TV, barely. A good eight inches fell last night. And the light filled the apartment this morning as I made coffee and fed Bob and the kids' cat who's visiting while my daughter is in Florida, and picking up my guitar I quietly strummed it because that was the right way to play it in the quiet.
An older man across the street snow-blowed his sidewalk, the puny whine was all I could hear. And I'm sure he's proud of his snow-blower, even though it wasn't that big. In the city tools like that tend to be smaller. You see a lot more little pickups, smaller-sized snow blowers and lawn mowers. Nature just seems to be pushed to the wings here. But she's still here. Standing on the subway platform in the morning, the inboound platform faces east, and the wind off the ocean just knifes through your skin. And I think, I bet this is going to feel good in the summer, but right now this hurts.
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