The Frequency

The dark stretched out,

past the last streetlamp,

towards the water.

A sound began,

low,

a long, slow slide

of pure tone.

Not the shriek

of an ambulance,

not the foghorn's moan.

It seemed to crawl,

to bend itself

around the warehouses,

a question

nobody

was asking.

It faded,

left the air

too clean.