The sky is white with small swirls of gray. The world is overcast with the chainsmoker's cough. I look up at the quivering leaves. Each leaf, a bomb vibrating, just waiting to get off. I watch the steam puffed sky whisper to the leaves above me. Each green flake, gullible to what the sky says, shakes a bit more in the cold. I know that the leaves have a desire to hold each other in order to stop the ticking. They cannot stand the winter.

Winter's claws reach through my hair, and twirl strands to tangle it. A girl with long, curly, brown hair stands by the cement block. She nears closer and closer to it with her legs, but never uses it as her throne. She possibly assumes the cement bench is cold. A large debate, not sound, in her head.

I watch hurried students switch from passenger to driver, and driver to note taking college kid. The cranky bus pulls to the side of the curb. I stand and enter. The heater is overbearing, but comforting. It is then I realize I have entered a synthetic place. Nothing natural at all. We are selfish to think that changing the climate for comfort is somewhat deserving. I longed to be outside with the cold. I wanted the leaves to rain about me. I didn't even mind the thought of being frozen to the bench. A new statue for the tree to shield.

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