I love the way that this poem handles motion.

The first stanza whips into the station with the sound of air brakes: November/crowding/cold/sprouts and reduced/
repetitive/ruins and pushing/curled/mud.

The second stanza then jerks forward with the i’s
white/striped) and ee’s (tree/needle/green/between) of a whiney cricket.

The third shudders (spots/down/rock/slow/hold), and leads into the coasting of the final stanza (spot/yellow/forgotten/stole/commodious parasols/down/out/snow/

All of this lends freight (sorry) to the final lines: we expect the snow to pull us foward, but we’ve come to a standstill.

The forgotten stole is fabulous. Was musing this morning that brown hydrangea heads resemble chenille sleeves of a chubby jacket. Not quite as elegant!