I first felt it when a stranger
asked me for directions to the museum.
She smiled slightly at my accent
but ignored it, not knowing the town
any better than me, even in her language.

You live here? she asked,
and not where I was from.
We discussed the architecture, the academics,
and then she wondered,
could I maybe suggest a restaurant?

I felt it in the first snow of the season,
in the familiar taste of wet air just before release—
in the soft flakes that fall one-by-one
before the rush, before they cling together
and gather speed.


I don’t normally share unworkshopped pieces, but there you go: a snapshot of my week.