The spanking hand of frigid winter weeks before Thanksgiving hit the land like an icy stab of a knife. Walking on 17th Street to work, I bent my head down slightly to bury it in my soft gray scarf. But the blasts kept coming, cutting into my face like ice water. The wave of air swirled the half-pipe between the walls of buildings on either side of the street. I pressed into the oncoming surge, using the top of my head like the nose of a jet to cut through. The aroma of pancakes and bacon at Little Pete's came and went in a second as the gush of wind cleansed the air of all but the pure smell of cold. Again, the smell of Peet's coffee escaped a café but the force of Winter's vigilant hand scooped that up as well, leaving nothing behind.  For just a moment, I imagine sipping a hot cup of rich coffee from that shop, comforting my cold body. The trucks and buses seem quieter today. Even they take a secondary role in the symphony of city sound when the wind tramples on stage. The trees on the street still haven't gone dormant yet--they still flash green here and there. But the hard slap of this skyward hand will steal what little remains on their branches.