Saturday’s snowy swirls were of little consequence.
Streets refused to get wet, last week’s rock salt
now pulverized into fine powder, covering each trotted inch
the tourists had creeped upon the city in the New Year—

The last confetti and balloon pieces were swept away overnight,
the salty streets remained cold, with invisible ice
only the natives could take heed of.

The air smells like salt.
It chills the lungs instantly as we tread on,
never pausing, never daring to remain glued in one spot
lest we become pillars;
we should never look back, keep on soldiering ahead.

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