It sounded as though the street was sizzling, like a hot frying pan full of grease. Exhalations following sharp inhalations created steam, which amplified the crackling.
I couldn’t make out the exact moments of impact from where I was sitting, but leaning slightly to one side I could see white toothpicks acutely slicing through the air just above the ground at a forty-five degree angle.
Then I noticed the footprints. Not a set. Just the one foot. The right. One after the other. I doubted that an extremely agile one-footed person had skillfully traversed that path in these conditions. More likely than not, the left footprints had vanished by virtue of their placement mere inches away from the right in a more depressed section of the street. The right footprints looked to be en route to a similar fate, their form quickly dissolving as precipitation steadily vanished their existence, too.
All of this observing and deducing. I suddenly thought of the polar bears and separately felt wry with the realization that footprints erase footprints and that something was in fact sizzling despite the white stuff on the ground.