Alone

by Igor Zenin

A single tree holds its gold leaves against a blanket of snow, lit from behind by a hazy sun caught somewhere between dusk and dawn. Fog softens the street lamps into faint smudges of light down the row, and the whole scene sits in that particular quiet only a winter street emptied of people can produce. Solitude here isn't sad — it's just autumn's last color refusing to leave before the snow does.