Alive As He Could Be

Winter isn’t death. It is life.
Winter is when he sees the white world with his dark eyes.
Winter is when he smiles and smokes and stands in the snow and watches.
He watches slowly-passing cars that slide on ice-slick suburban streets, their windows fogged and frosted, scraped just enough to make it to the LRT.
He watches the too-early Christmas lights of the house across the way illuminating the snow on its roof in a conga line of red and green ghostly glows.
He watches the carolers ring bells and sing songs and kick up snow with every swish-swish of their snow pants.
Winter is when he plays with the children.
Winter is when he grows with the children.
Spring is when he dies alone in the sun.

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