Fading wail

The dryer's low hum, a drone I knew,

folding towels, soft and warm.

Then a sound, a rising, thin and new,

a wail that cut the quiet, a warning storm.

From somewhere far off, a siren's keen cry,

climbing the scale, then holding tight.

It bled through the insulation, up to the sky,

a sharp, blue pulse in the fading light.

Then it fell, the sound, dissolving slow,

into the city's general, constant drone.

And all that was left, the dryer's low,

steady hum. I was back, suddenly alone,

with the soft towels, and the thought of where

that sound had gone, and what it meant out there.