Snowdrops white-flare in
sun: overcast they embrace a wistful prettiness.
The sky is gathering dark: into the cold pool of sky: clouds are beginning to
dissolve.
We are working in a school while the old town hall hosts a musical production.
It smells like soap; fake floral, somehow reassuring. Outside, the last winter
month splices into spring. In here; the lunch benches, the climbing bars, the
bold childish brushstrokes on thick paper, the wires that hang from the back of
a stereo; that clean scent.
The last class gather in through the fire doors, in from the night.
It's snowing.
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