the crack under my window catches the winds from the darkened outside
and pulls out of them a swelling howl.
their racing currents are made visible by swarms of even snowflakes,
like little crystaline insects, filling a space otherwise vast
and reigning in the world to twenty steps ahead and twenty behind,
clothing streetsigns in glistening fur,
and collecting on the wool coat of a solitary traveler,
driven to his side on the crests of the wind
as he walks steadily, himself to large to run with the glass sprites,
only walking, beneath heavy budding branches,
underneath a solid gray-pink blanket with his collar up about his neck
to keep the wind from picking him up with its silent, prickly fingers
and stealing him away,
leaving the coat where it fell,
to be covered with snow.
night before april fools, snow after a weekend of spring