I'm walking home
at the end of a my work day
through the frozen streets of the city.
Snow starts,
then the wind.
Within the space of a few blocks,
it becomes a storm.

I come to the park's edge
and the the vast openness–
a quarter-mile crossing
unsheltered by buildings or trees.

The wind strips moisture and heat
from my face and forehead.
Sharp, quick-driven snow crystals
beat against my skin.
This hurts.

How, I wonder, do the homeless survive this?
I know I'll make it across the park.
I could turn around
and take temporary shelter
in the grocery store I just passed.
I could stop there and buy a hat
(why hadn't I brought my hat?).
I have a cell phone; I could call a cab.
I have options.
But what if I didn't?

I choose to continue across the park,
sheltering my aching face
with one gloved hand,
then the other,
head down,
occasionally glancing up,
squinting into the snow
just long enough to get my bearings,
trying to judge
how much longer this crossing will take.

On the far side, finally,
condo buildings block the wind.

The homeless spend their winters
blown like leaves to the leeward edges
of office buildings and dumpsters.

I walk three more blocks
and the storm ends–
just like that–
no more wind, no more snow.
I'm walking home.
Just the end of another work day.

Text and image © 2010 by Dirk deVries. All rights reserved.