overwinter

trapped between

stationary bars of

parallel greys

and power lines

that cut the sky to slices,

the portent clouds pause

in the skyscraper windows

to admire their own reflections

of vaporous whites,

billowing and shifting.

In that

grimy seventeenth story window,

he pauses

to make a paper airplane,

the folds crisp

with lines a pure, innocent

blue on white

He watches it sail

underneath the sea of clouds,

over the dead lines

of the sidewalk.

And it keeps him from

jumping

for just another day.

So gently,

the clouds cover the

greyness in

a soft blanket of white,

promising a new start.