A Chicago Winter's Day Along Devon

As the suns reflection off the unmolested snow greets early shoppers eyes along the avenue, a battered city snow plow scrapes the concrete, leaving in its wake the familiar pockmarked street which is Devon.

The fragrant air of fresh baked bread, and pastry laden window, of the bakery off Sacramento invite the passer by to step inside. East bound traffic snakes along as the early morning sun blinds drivers, and the icy street beneath their cars compel them to proceed with care. The crackling of the salt beneath their wheels, and distant whirl of spinning tires go seemingly unnoticed to increasing droves of people, negotiating paths along un-shoveled sidewalks as they start out their day.

The storefronts, varying in ethnic culture, offer glimpses of the neighborhood's diversity to unfamiliar passers by: Sari shops, Islamic bookstores, Russian gift stores, and Kosher delis, strewn about in asymmetric order. The advertisements in the in the windows, read like ancient hieroglyphics to every other person who may pass, but heartfelt mother tongue to those who may come next.

The costume of the cultures peeking out, while hid beneath familiar winter coats. Burkas, hijabs, chadors, and tikhls cover heads of Muslim, Hindu, and Hasidic woman, while skullcaps, and wide brimmed hats of black, adorn the heads of men. The more familiar Western dress appears as well on black, white, and Hispanic residents who, collectively, just all blend in to stomp their feet in sync to keep their toes from winters chill.

The snow, now graying slush along the street as traffic once again resumes a normal pace, is less a burden on the eyes. A storekeep shovels off the path outside his shop and shakes his head dejectedly at passers by, while he stares upon the walk next-store neglected by his neighbor. He speaks to some in his own tongue, who seem to understand, and they too shake their heads in an agreeable disdain.

Further down the block, congregating cabbies chain-smoke cigarettes outside the Punjab restaurant, brushing off their rides and talking on their cell phones amidst the permeating smell of braising lamb. The screeching of the air-brakes from a city bus precedes the hydraulic induced whoosh, as it opens up it's doors to invite the cold commuters in. Then chugs on down the street to emit from it's exhaust a blackened cloud to rise in contrast to a yolk like yellow sun, set in a robins egg hued sky. The whirring of the turbines of a 727 cuts the silence in the sky, as it throttles down prepared for landing on it's flightpath westward towards O'Hare.

The buildings on the street, once standard store facade (Brownstone, or Terra- Cotta), now find themselves replaced by more exotic architecture resemblant of the Middle East. Electronic stores and jewelers stock windows with their wares in hopes to tempt the passing prospect with their price. Then seeming out of place, the shamrock in the window of Casey's Corner Bar comes into view. Caucasian patrons taking turns to have a smoke outside, as their compatriots indoors attempt to keep a foothold on the last remaining bastion of their day. The sidewalks, mostly cleared now, have formed a range of icy hills along the curb. The parking meters, protruding from the hills, showing tongues to passers by, until their taunt is met with coin. The patrons from the bar precariously eye the street for signs of meter readers, whose main objective is to only keep those meters overfed.

The siren from an ambulance screams in the distance, with it's sliding whistle warning preceded by two short bursts of horn. Until it fades off to the west, where the river marks the city limit, and sun will set; until the earths rotation brings it once again around to light the eastern sky along Devon.