The view from my window is cold. It could freeze me, take me along with it into the wind's icy howl. There are no leaves on the elms, nor the maples, nor the oaks. The street is wet, and cars pass on it, the same ones as before.
No one is here. Everyone is gone.
Sometimes the view from my window is of people laughing, falling drunken to the sidewalk. Childish games and yelling distract me, make me look out into the night. The orange-yellow glow of the streetlight never reveals the culprits.
I hear a gull call, or was it a crow? They are mistaken to be here. Winter is not over yet.
I can see dumpsters from my window; they are forest green with black plastic tops. Because of construction, they were moved from where they were before. A man goes by those dumpsters, and he looks through them. He puts stuff from them into the baskets on his three-wheeled bicycle. I feel sorry for him.
I see only one sign. It announces the name of the place where I live. It's lonely and needs friends. But I look closer and see some parking signs; they're too small.
I see a lot of cars, houses as well. None of the cars or houses are mine. I've only been in one of the houses I can see from my window. There's a bench; white lines of snow outline the boards attached to the metal frame. The bench is empty.
I could see the grass, but now I can't There was a blizzard earlier, and I was out in it.
The view from my window is cold. The only thing that keeps me from it: the heat of the radiator before me.