When it snows in New York, street lights drop brown shadows and flicker like short wicked candles. A pocket of chaos in a sea of black, they illuminate a storm all their own. Atmospheres divided by the blank spaces of night, dark street corners, and empty delis. Brownstone steps, dressed in white, see no stars and feel no feet. We watch from windows caked in fog and breathe in sighs. My morning flight is cancelled.