PAUL CHRISTENSEN

We're waiting for the first snowflakes to appear this year. The sky is low, almost thick as jelly with dark mushy clouds and a wind that tastes of iodine. The temperature is falling, the earth is waiting like a child who has asked his mother for a blanket. It's cold in the room I am writing in, and through the chink in the curtain I can see the sky growing morose, as if it had been dreaming of summer and was awakened rudely to this November afternoon. Everyone's inside, huddl