"I'm dreaming of a

white christmas"

rang through my headphones,

as a cold breeze ran through my hair,

and my fingers and nose turned red.

I look out into the city,

whose trees have been

shredded from their leaves,

and whose house tops

glisten in the morning sun.

The ancient monuments

peak out of the skyline,

and the dirty brown water,

flows gently below.

The sound of the cold wind,

is accompanied by faint rustling

of leaves,

and the sound of cars rushing past.

I watch as the last leaves

blow of the trees.

There's a beauty here,

far beyond anyone's understanding.

It's imperfect.

The mechanic sounds of cars,

and the odd footsteps approaching,

then leaving again.

But it's beautiful.

The distant buildings,

empty trees,

cold wind and calming water.

It's not the white christmas

that the song sings of.

And, it's certainly no where

near perfect.

Yet that's what makes it beautiful.

It's not a white christmas.

It's my white christmas.