Dirty Snow

I know I’m not alone in waxing about dirty snow. Not yellow snow, (the poetic territory of the late, great, Frank Zappa) or mountain snow with natural dirt and mud, but city snow, for an instant, pure driven snow, hopeful, beautiful – then, for the rest of it’s life cycle, driven on snow, shunned, neglected. There is no deeper portrait of dejection then that last little pile of dirty snow in the corner of a parking lot in Detroit

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