Cor van den Heuvel

Snowstorm

After the long snowfall has silenced the East Village, the streetlights hold the snowy streets in a stillness of softly glowing curves and mounds of snow. Out of every­day objects the snow has created new shapes and landscapes. Garbage cans are white pillars of rounded snow. The cars parked along East Tenth Street have become sloping hills all joined together. The street itself is a still river of white, the snow now too deep for traffic. The building fronts, from steps to eaves, and their iron fences and gates have all been transformed into ornate filagrees of snow. The snow deco­rates the bare branches of the sidewalk trees so that ginkoes, oaks, and flowering pears are now all snow trees. There is no wind. Only a single person is out walking and now he too is still. The street glows silently in the lamplight.

city street
the darkness inside
the snow-covered cars