rain sleet and extreme wind
He backtracked toward the overpass. Snow, frozen slush etched his half boots. He blew on cupped hands into an out of his pockets finally leaving his hands slid flat inside his jeans. Trudging, high-stepping-- trying to see-- his denim jacket and hooded sweatshirt sleet encrusted. He’d stop now and again averting his face toward the darkness as work-a-day headlights approached. The center gully had an ice layer beneath the snow. He hunched low and folded his arms defensively. The prairie wind seemed to intensify and he walked sideways away from it.
Beneath the overpass he attempted to stomp his feet on the slanted concrete. He shook ice off. Relieved from much of the wind, he tried to keep warm by working his arms up beneath his jacket and sat down near the top of the overpass. Drowsily he thought that it was impossible to warm up. He lay flat on his back with arms folded inside his jacket. Tucking his legs beneath him he inched as high as he could up the concrete and curled up tightly just beneath the V crevice of the roadway bridge.
He fought sleep.
Around him the snow squall howled swirling in off the plains. The daybreak storm had accelerated. Now the horizontal velocity of pelting sleet caught up on and clung and built over everything in its path: the whiteout sticking to the enclave of the expressway bridge, mounding on it, through it, with a relentless heaping—a quickened continuous blue-white wall a foot deep and then higher.
Overhead an orange amber beaconed snowplow ground past.
A huge cascade of snow avalanched off the bridge forming a wall high enough to buffet the wind. In the day-darkness, his sleeves pulled down over bare hands, he hollowed a concave within the berm. He rolled his body small, rocking.
It was warm there.