It was dawn now, and the Hope Memorial Bridge, coated with a thin glaze of ice followed by snow now falling heavily from the Northwest, was shut down; traffic re-routed to lesser, arteries as Cleveland started up for the day and headed for work.
Snow and ice wasn't the real reason the traffic had been rerouted.
Cars were being towed off of the bridge from where a ball of light was darting in and out of the superstructure – engines dead, electrical systems fried.
Down below, sheets of ice were formed and broke apart, grinding together and the bridge footings.
The pigeons had left for warmer surroundings, leaving their roosts and taking their chances in the high wind that caused the streetlamps to sway and groan as a hand drifted in the muddy water below, a hand with an 8 ball tattooed on it between the thumb and forefinger as the face of the owner was quietly ground away against the rough concrete by the motion of the current.