Denny Way

This snowfall is fresh, a light even coating over the few smudges that are left from the night before last. Each flake casts a shadow on a car or on the street or sidewalk before it lands.

The street is quiet. No one walks past during the time that I stand by the window. There’s only one trail of footprints on the sidewalk. No tire tracks.

But now I sit and write this and I hear voices pass, excited and chattering.

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