They watch falling flakes.

My beard is full -- the flakes are falling 
and will not melt in this weather. 
Along street routes -- I walk without walkways, 
hearing a buzzing in my ears as the blizzard 
falls on my dark shoulders. 
The cars skirt by me, quite close --
I could touch their tires if not for speed -- 
they move past me like ice in a river-thaw, 
their stare can freeze those that care, 
though it stopped freezing me long ago 
as I shake out my beard, again.