Walking home

in your transplant city,

you witness

the aftermath of a fall.

The sugary powder

of snow leaves

thin coats on cracked sidewalks

made of broken brick.

The presumed slippery patch

of ice underneath

must have caused the victim

to smooth out this layer of snow

with a stretch of their leg, a glide.

When they got up,

they were probably fine.

A little sore and shaken up

that their leg could stretch out that far.

You may be the only witness

before more flurries

will blanket the victim's wreckage.

You stand over the aftermath

and see an artist's tool,

a paintbrush.

All you can think

of is how this artist

could have walked away

from their masterpiece.

How they could just leave

the piece behind for a

wandering writer

to stop and stare.

Then, she would share

how the aftermath of a fall

leaves behind a mark;

a scar in the snow.