On the wind beyond the window,
snowflakes sideways, the street
streams with white waves, riffles
on gusts colliding with vehicles
to swirl like dust on a black
river of asphalt. I am no snow man
and imagine small covies of quail
before the shotgun, before
the bobcat, before taking flight.
Feathers fly with each collision,
gather and flee downstream
as if running for their lives.