Another beautiful day on the farm: overcast skies threatening to unload their burden like candy store owners in the afternoon when punk little chillun come swarming in like bees: grubby, dirty fingers anxiously pinching the goods, squishing the gummi-bears and not so patiently wandering the store- some of the older ones consider theft- middle school kids call it the “five finger discount.” Don’t believe me? Look outside. That’s what windows are for- playing on the imagination. Soon enough those threatening clouds will be in possession of a different precipitation- they’ll lumber down from the artic north bringing with them a blanketing rhyme of the purest white- twinkling “like diamonds” through the city’s street-lamps, glowing like haloes. People will arm themselves against the freezing onslaught with galoshes and downy bilious coats that make anyone look like a successful gym buff. Armed to the teeth. Slipping on ice- bruised ass and hamstrings. Not just yet. The trees still clutch tenuously to their aging foliage like grandpa- he’s a fighter, cancer won’t beat him- turning yellow and brown and red and wafting downward, loosened by the wind, dragged by gravity, swept into orange and black trash-bags with pseudo-evil grins staring out at the passing traffic. Cars that come to a temporary halt, waiting for the light to let them pass, their drivers aren’t looking at the grey sunblocked sky overhead- not that light- the creeping seasons mean only that maybe a fender bender looms about next months corner. But that’s tomorrow. Today the sky will open up its frosted doors and drench the streets with glimmering droplets that form small sparkling puddles- shimmering in the headlights like broken glass, fallen mirrors. Overgrown bushes, distant whispering.