After a while, only a few snowflakes dot the air. When cars pass by on Broadway, it creates an updraft that rises between my building and the building across 102nd Street. And so, every few minutes, for the briefest of moments, this rising air slows the snowflakes’ fall and they appear to hover in midair. Then, seconds later, the air shifts and they resume their descent to the saturated earth.
Somewhere else in the city, a little boy loads a pebble into his slingshot, pulls the bands back past his heart, sets his aim, and then pauses.
Someplace else, a door slams. An old woman mending a sweater looks up, clenching the needles between her chapped hands.
On the street corner, two people are about to kiss. One is rather unsure and, just before closing his eyes, holds his last thin, frozen inhale.
Now, the snow is heavier. A man walking on the sidewalk pauses to tuck the fluttering end of his scarf into his jacket.
The pigeons no longer sit across the street. They have flown to another place.