Slush Hour

Suddenly, everyone around here is a ballet dancer, leaping over pools of slush. Either that or they're doing the old-man shuffle along crusts of unstable, cracking ice. You have to feel grateful at a time like this for a patch of concrete or a narrow canyon that someone has carved through a snow bank. Single file, everyone. The winter wonderland of the weekend is already dissolving into a gray, dripping mish-mash. But over the usual urban sounds you can still hear the frantic whine of tires spinning and the dull rhythm of digging, digging, digging--and (heads up!) the crash of ice falling off a roof.