A circle of ash cascades down the column of cold air next to the stone-plaster ashtray,

each dead and grey particle entwining and encircling the other, forming and outfalling from double-helix sequences that nobody notices,

providing half-seen distractions for the one standing idly smoking a Camel – a Turkish Royal –, and he’s looking like he’s working something out:

Why bother waiting? He’s paused, waiting until the cigarette burns low, the addiction sated, ceased in action until the decision of the nicotine forces departure, and finally decides to reject life – but to slowly wither here in the frozen snows and devouring winds?

Standing, paused still, wondering at the ashtray now, and as the embers cool to ashes, questions of scarves and stones arise: why choose the half-finished, woolen-scratchy black-and-grey scarf?

For fashion and heat, possibly, although the nature of an unfinished scarf and colors contradictory to fashion sense dictate otherwise, suggesting another motive –

The same, then, as why he carries the wolf-stone from Minnesota, a reminder of failings long-past and futures impossible, and as my mind turns to wonder at such things, the burning sun of the Camel finally dies,

And he steps away from the plaster-stone ashtray, leaving behind wool, stone, and a broken double-helix of ash.