...writing exercise

From a book called "Writing for Self Discovery." Hokey title, I know. But some of these writing prompts are very good. And I want to try them out. I just finished the first one. It is called At This Moment. So I took my book outside and wrote for half an hour.

At This Moment: Friday November 28, about noon.
There are residual puddles from this morning's rain. The usual pigeons are absent, replaced by small brown birds. I live in city, I don't know what they are called. The sky is encased in clouds. Big, puffy, white clouds that completely obscure any hint of blue sky beyond. These clouds makes things in the distance look foggy. A man is looking through a phone book, a little boy is carrying a big water jug. My view north is blocked by a large, red building. But through the windows I can see the train passing. East is the homeless shleter with its colorful mosaic of tiles and only one person milling around outside instead of the usual crowd. Beyond that is the city and then the mountains, which I cannot see through the fog but I know are there. West is the brick building I live in and just past that, the train station. I can just see the top of the train as it rounds the corner. And past that, the cement wall of the freeway. I can't see the cars. Behind me, to the south, is my front door. White, with a big window in the middle. I can smell my cigarette smoke, my coffee, faintly, but mostly I smell coldness. Does coldness have a smell? It does today. Where I live in the city, there is never a shortage of noise. I can hear the bell of the train, the brakes of a bus pulling up to the curb, a car honking its horn, cars driving past, muffled footsteps and even more muffled conversation. I can hear air blowing, the sound of a car startin, pulling away. The sound of car doors slamming. The squeal of brakes. The constant susurrus of the freeway. The flapping of wings. Little bird chirps. And if I listen very closely I can hear the breeze ruffling the leaves of the only tree by my building. A sad little thing, brown and crinkly. I feel cold. It gets cold in the winter here but it's been mild so far. Today, I can feel the bite of winter. It gets too cold for comfort so I move inside. Inside it is warm and orange. And quiet. I can hear the dryer tumbling, the fridge humming, the neighbor walking up the stairs, the faint sound of cars outside. The chair squeaks when I move and the spoon scrapes when I stir. I see a constant mess. Which will be cleaned and messed again. I see the Windows logo bouncing around on my computer screen. I see the cat urled up on the futon. He raises his head as if he knows I am writing about him. My sweater is old and pilled but soft and worn and comfortable. My hair is tangled and my eyelashes are crusted from sleep. I feel the contentment of being allowed to sleep in until 11 and not have any pressing obligations to worry about. The clock blinks a green 11:27. In the back of my mind, I know I have tests to grade and lessons to plan but I am not worried about it. I am still full from Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. I have leftovers in the fridge. I wonder why J wasn't this awesome to me when we were together. I wonder if Z thinks about me while he is away. I want to smell him. I love his smell. I wonder what I should do next? Draw? Paint? Read? Go see if Slowtrain has the new Uzi and Ari cd? Put my clothes from the dryer away? Go to the bookstore? Go back to bed?