The snowstorm rolls in so quickly,
it furnishes the answer to your question,
Why is the sky so desperately small?
It’s yellow, it’s black, it’s grey,
yet you can see it’s red and blue too,
and you can smell its intent;
and just when all you could see before
of the city now becomes unseen,
out from the air-thicket flies
a V of geese, honking in unison,
lifting into a sun-blessed world
the riverscape on their wings.