Scrawl

Slush coated figures have been drawn on the sidewalk, dribble people, their disjoined limbs twisted into guesses to be pecked over by hammer driven beaks. After the hard-packed snow acrobats were doodled flying slipshod below a trapezing wind. If the frigid sky were a wall its graffiti would spray can itself. Here on the pavement the 20 questions party game is in full swing. Prompted by the ice art, we ask: “Is it a place?” “Is It an object?” “Is it real or fictional?” The answer to all these questions is “YES.” Meanwhile the swirling unfurling of meaning still has legs until feral pigeon wings sweep even those last appendages away. What is left once meant a fleeting abstract something but that was before the concrete forgot how to read itself, and the sky grew too puzzled to play anymore.