On Custer Street, the snow under
the viaduct turns into water.
Gurgling on brick-edges, it streams
down—alongside the pillar slopes.
Birds are absent; they know the cold
will return. A few passersby
hurry to the bank, post office,
pharmacy, then back to their cars.
Gravity pulls. The snow meekly
spills in gutters, sinks into dirt.
People, their pulls convoluted,
look grave, their feet firm on the ground.
Everything moves sideway or down.
The passersby stroll in silence
but the streamlets are full of sound:
bubble-burble-trickle-gurgle.
Lighter than a snowflake, the tune
rises up, hovers in the sky.
So there’s a way out of the pull,
the tiny waterfalls’ surprise?