I wake to find that Spring was only teasing yesterday. That bright scent in the air, the sunshine (taking off gloves and hat for the first time) had all been a mere flirtation. Today winter is back to whisper in our ears lest we forget, whitening the branches of trees all over again.
I make my way through fresh slush towards the metro station. A woman is standing to the side of the pavement holding a cardboard sign. It says she is hungry. She stands rigid in the gentle snow, a scarf tied beneath her chin, covering her head which is tilted towards her right shoulder at precisely the correct angle to elicit pity from anybody who might look in her direction.
Her right shoulder is slightly raised, lifted just the tiniest shade towards her leaning head, as if between the two some invisible embrace exists, holding her up, and a disembodied voice breathes words which she can barely hear; impossible to tell if they are words of hope, despair or resignation. She even looks comfortable in that position. Snow is building up in little piles on the shoulders of her coat, as on the eaves of houses. Her eyelashes are collecting silent snowflakes.
Upon my return, she is standing in the same place, her body in exactly the same position. She has refined this posture over time. Who knows how long? A small, sharp wind flicks a flurry of snow from the plastic cover of a nearby newspaper stand and blows it over her. Although the sky is clear elsewhere, in her small corner where she stands, perfectly still, it is still snowing.
Invisible in Moscow 