February Snow

The city always sounds different when it snows.

Tonight the flakes come down heavy and slanted, turning the street into a softer version of itself. Headlights smear into warm halos. The pavement shines black where tires have pressed the wet down, and the edges of the sidewalk gather a thin, patient white. Parked cars sit with their shoulders hunched under fresh snow, as if they’ve decided to stay put and listen.

I stood for a moment under the wires and streetlights and watched the storm do its quiet work. It doesn’t erase the neighborhood so much as it edits it—muting the hard lines, lowering the volume, making room for a small kind of wonder.

Even in Brooklyn, even with the traffic and the late-night glow from apartment windows, winter can feel private. The snow falls between buildings like it belongs there, like it has always been part of the architecture. It reminds me how a place can be loud all day and still hold something hushed at night.

February Snow, and the street keeps going on ahead, bright in the distance, disappearing into the weather.