p(first). A moment of baroque strangeness the other day. In my office clicking away like a good little worker stooge. Snow outside blanched, tall and defeating; temperatures bearing down heavy; vehicle exhaust hanging in the air like a diaphanous tax audit. At the ouskirts of these observations I hear the faint chirp of birds. This isn't entirely unexpected or out of place. I am well aware of the nest located just outside my second-floor window. But it's minus twenty out there. The little wingers are probably freezing their asses off. Still, they chirp high and alive. I imagine they won't last long in this slog. Not much food around these parts these days, what with two feet of snow on the ground and temperatures in the tank. How they survive in this shit is a mystery. I guess I'll take a bit of the small amount of hope that they carry. Keep it for when I really need it. Through the blind slats I see a black bird flitter down the way and disappear over a warehouse roof. So very dark are his wings.