February 1

Right now such flames are flowing in the February sky, that seem to make the smelling winds flow faster, increase, sweep far above our heads. And over on the russet roofs the old smell of rain is dank.
The air is crisp even now, frosty outside, silenced outside on the windowpane. The windows put a flat defence face against the melting outside. They are so impassive and dark dark brown in shadows, so uncaring.
But somewhere the redhead girls are smiling, and somewhere dreaming of drink they're diving heads, slurping beers, laughing at the scent of cheap perfume.
Love for the vulgar vaginal girls at lunchstops and deserting the stepped-off pavements of roads, near inside where the sweeties are banked up in rows, and an old man is sweeping past with his meditative hat. Street-sweepers in blue overalls moaning with pugnacious faces and the morning paper. They sweep up pink cards announcing last Saturday's football games, wedding invitations, guest lists and chewing gum.
Inside suburbia are fat televisions and holy icons, tabernacle tables and polished sweeties in a box. Old ladies are knitting in bed, and screwing up mouths over sorrow. She dreams of the flowering hill, the secretive flowing burn, the taste of fresh cow's milk on the wooden bench at the crack of morn. And down steep hills floodwaters are coming, washing mud-brown the sleek fur of puppies.
The lazy sound of faraway traffic, broken carved-out packages on the bottom of reclining hills, ambulance driver reclining with his bald patch, ticking off his lottery numbers. The happy brunette passing wants to cry. Wants to fold fat sheets and smell lovely brew, the brew of feather warmth and shampoo.
Wants cream cakes and luxurious handsoap, wants translucent vases and to be reminded of the Virgin Mary. Wants to cradle the finest silks to her round belly, or to caress bleating sheep.
Instead has to strangle herself into grappling with rusty steel, with stinking leather, with the creamy sheen of plastic.