Looking out the high-rise window into a fog so dense that it blurs an afternoon sky deep into the thawing river, that wash of gray as far as everything, a world of gray, except for the squares of snow, which from above in high-rise relief appear as boxes of city park and tree guard and trash bin, you think about leaving.
Tomorrow isn’t different, except the sun shines, and the banks of the river suddenly appear, and you see the place on the cliffs where you went on that day trip—back when every rattling bus ride was an adventure.
–Sharon Rousseau is a writer, photographer and poet living in NYC and the Hudson Valley. Visit her website.
100 Word Story Anthology 