Sunday, Seven-Fifteen, A.M., February.

Along that way, off Monroe, on Boardman, the black trees begin just behind the Avenue broad sidewalk. Burdened with snow that has just for the moment ceased to fall, branches arch over and, nearly, artlessly, mingle above the street and below the thick blue-cold clouds, the cawing crows. It is Sunday morning and this Sunday morning I'm going to breakfast in the South Wedge despite the weather. A ten minute walk that begins with two blocks of Boardman porch fronts and flags out (banners both national and neighborly); then around the deadend corner on to Richard to pass by Rising Place before cutting through the bit of tree canopied sidwalk-park that is alongside the top of the Expressway off-ramp at the Goodman overpass. Starting out, noticing the quiet defying swirl of black birds crowing about the tree tops, in the Avenue left behind, too, I notice the sudden rush and grumble of a bus out to Highland, to Brighton Twelve Corners, to Pittsford village on the canal that is passing. The groan is familiar but there something unfamiliar, too, and, turning back, I see the last of the hall room on wheels escaping by Alladin's on the Avenue and realize the difference is the snow on the pavement so new fall the trucks and traffic haven't gotten to it, yet, muting the tires. Lights illuminate Oxford's front, though the black panes are no longer neon; in an hour the lights may still be there but, with the brightening day, they'll no longer be noticeable. My footprints in the sidewalk snow from the corner may be there still as well, and, perhaps, still be alone. Approaching Pearl, halfway to Richard, a window rises and snow storms from the branches and off the steep pitched roofs. It is a storm of spatters of already fallen snow falling farther from the black tracery of wrought iron branches and snow dust being swept into the air from gables and turrets.