Walking to Work

I pull up under the yellow glow of the street lamp and let the engine hum for a few moments before cutting it and breathing slowly, deeply. As I exhale I can already see my breath as the moisture freezes in the cold, dry January air. Stepping out of the car I see how the snow has lost its charm having mixed with the salt, sand, and dirt becoming a brown, black and grey slushy mess. Walking over the bridge to Raspberry Island is peaceful at this time of the morning, the sun still enjoying its slumber. As I approach the steps to begin my ascent to the Wabasha Bridge above I glimpse the Mississippi and stop and gaze at its majesty, the frozen choppy ice juxtaposed next to its free flowing open water counterpart. The water is almost black reflecting just a hint of the downtown haze in the distance. The moving ripples pressing ever onward down stream. I reach the bridge and listen to the crunch of the snow under my boots. The hustle and bustle of business and commerce has yet to commence. Nothing awake but the omnipresent office buildings, river, bridge and me. I reach the end of the overpass and stop at the red light before me. Looking in either direction I chuckle to myself: I am the only one at this intersection; I am waiting only out of routine rather than right-of-way. Still I remain stationary until the green light indicates safe passage to the next curb. Continuing along the road inhaling through my nostrils I smell very little, the air too cold and thin to carry any odors or fragrances might recognize. Before long I find myself at my destination and, despite the cold frigid season I realize that I am quite fond of these early morning winter constitutionals. these intimate moments shared between the city and me are part of a relationship few experience. And for that I am grateful.