Dirt and salt sift onto the main road from the back of an old passing county truck. It stops for a red light, and a small mound of salty dirt forms at the intersection. There’ll be no hurrying to cross the side streets tonight. They won’t receive aid for hours. Passing an apartment complex that has put down salt, I stop to grind my boots into the heavy patches, looking for some little insurance on my walk home. Concrete is in evidence in tiny circles around the larger crystals that stand alone. I think of being a young woman in snow, the fallen flakes collecting on my long lashes, before one thousand winters passed, back when the act of falling was followed closely by – in love.