Featured: St. Paul/Walking in Midwinter

From the issue:

Jeremiah Moriarty

It was the morning after a snowstorm, when hours

are quieted by atmospheric baby-breaths,

a sublime nearness best with coffee—the sugaring season.

I pressed my hand into my coat pocket,

backpack light with everything

I had given up on,

and watched the snow descend, slowly and

without much fanfare,

on the dove gray dome of the cathedral.

Marshall Avenue is a crawl of headlights

and dark sedan curves, the windshield wipers

working through the white like

the dogged Minnesotans within, hardy souls

trying to reconcile all this cold

with all this beauty. A lamp-post bulb goes out,

but it’s daytime, I guess it doesn’t really matter.

I look both ways,

and cross the street, catching flakes on my face,

on my shoulders, on my bones. I’m trying hard

to keep moving forward, I really am.

There is a city in my head and I think it looks

just like this. Blinking the snow off my eyelashes,

I briefly look up: a plane heads east.

I continue on.