Dead Air

The streetlights flickered and then they went blind,

leaving the bruised, purple shadows behind.

The highway is muted, the dogs have gone still,

as the white weight accumulates over the sill.

A slab of gray slush slid away from the peak,

a heavy, soft landing—a secret to keep.

The mailbox is wearing a hat made of lead,

tilting its neck like it’s nodding its head.

There’s a silence that happens when flake meets the frost,

counting the things that we’ve quietly lost.