from 'the city searches for all lost'
There’s clarity in winter. At the end of November, when all of fall has slipped away and in the mornings the grass glitters like a thousand stars crumbled over it at night, days shorten. It gets light at seven and dark by four. Everyone seems to be inside, so at night if you are on the street, you are alone – with the whirlwind of snow and the sound of wind running past the walls, looking for a single crack to rush into the house, into your dreams, into your stories. All the shy, frightening stories come out in the winter, ghosts and things that prefer silence. If you stay awake, you can hear them wind-chime past your house at night, and in the morning, there are faint footprints on the snow.