I stopped midstep the kettle still

I stopped mid-step, the kettle still

on its base, unboiled.

The sky outside, a sudden spill

of color, uncoiled.

Orange so deep it looked like rust,

bleeding to bruised violet.

Dust motes in the window’s crust

caught fire, then were quit.

Just for a breath, the city’s grime

turned gold, then turned to grey.

A stolen moment out of time

before it all gave way.