The night air carried the creak of the screen door with the wind, softly bouncing over the piles of fresh snow. I sat with cigarette in hand as it slammed and listened past it for the trees rustling. I looked up the street and for a moment I was in a piece of art. My eyes recognized the street as it was before Henry Ford was inspired. The sky was a deep blue, the moon casting a glow of pure white upon a storm cloud which I noticed specifically because the gloomy cloud was given with the light, a silver lining. There were pine trees and naked maples covered only in the sheer glimmering frost. Roof tops of old houses with chimney stacks stacked with stoking logs, being stoked by saps sucking stogies, and the automobiles covered with sheets of glittering reflections of the skies spotlight while donating enough deception to the pupils to see carriages on these unplowed, unsalted, unshoveled, empty one way streets. I took another drag off my withering smoke, and smiled.
This sounds like a pretty nice moment. Made me want a cigarette.