The city does not care how It's dawn begin. There are Three ice cones under the eave Two drunk men stagger on the street A lonely car to the end of lane. Some pale light far away Some snow sweepers start to bray And the street lamps extend to the highway gradually quench for The first beam of sunlight across the skyline The second car fined for misalign And the third time that vapor piles up from the chimney of the chophouse where people dine. Calgary is at its wake.