Berlin was a cold shudder today. Wind and sudden precipitation transforming the way home from my university into a great northern scene, images of Russian winter wisped before my eyes as I walked in a dimmed world. The falling snow filtered city sounds to a white noise giving the feeling of singular isolation. In the semi-stillness the soft patsch patsch of snowdrops on a pink umbrella accompanied my steps.
Pink umbrella and I treaded onward, slanting against the force of stinging wind. My hands reddened around its ice clear handle.
Snow muted the faces that passed, the black coats, the snow spotted girls and indiscernible bundles of scarves and woolen hats. It iced the steel girders of the station, frosted glass storefronts and washed out the cobblestones and curbs.
In the gray tundra from train to apartment the oil slicks on the tram tracks were the only colorful things we passed.
The man met in the elevator and I rustled our dripping umbrellas in warmhearted camaraderie, ruffling their wings—she a great patterned bird of paradise shedding the wetness of a tropical storm.
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