The snow curved liked a backward crashing wave half loosening its grip on a park bench. It’s as if for just this one warm moment a small spot was being offered to contemplar mi estado. 



The fountain though has not regained its function. With more icey water surrounding it than flowing within, it sits alone in the courtyard gasping for breath above the line of snow.



But the light is undeniably back and can be seen in the shadows that linger in the late hours of the afternoon, when not long ago Orion would already have completed his commute before I my own.

(Standing outside of the Lynn Museuem north of Boston.)