An Afternoon in Winter

There were more murders last night. The sun is weak in strength but stunning in it's wash over the Saint Roch Market. Someone has tagged the market again--swirly white on black, the look of another alphabet in another language, another part of the world. Perhaps one even more violent than this one. We wait for the Grey Ghost to blot it out.

My boy is napping, and my man is searching for a permit. To build, not to carry. We want to put up a gate, afront our walkway. Security, please.

Any second a second line will pop out from nowhere. We'll bundle in sweaters and spill out onto the steps, remembering summer. "Stoop sitting. Let's do stoop sitting," our little one will say.