The Thaw

The furnace finally held its breath.

Silence is a different kind of noise,

sharper than the hum we’ve lived inside

since November.

Across the street, a man in a thin shirt

lifts a bag of mulch. He’s early.

There’s still a pile of gray slush

crouching in the shade of the fence.

A single fly wakes up on the pane,

banging its head against the light.

It doesn't understand the glass

any better than I do.