Static

The fridge stopped its humming an hour ago.

The kitchen is a cold, white square.

Outside, a boot print on the path

is slowly losing its shape,

filling up with flakes that don't

make a single sound when they land.

It's a heavy kind of quiet,

like wool being piled on wool.

I can hear the house settling

into its own bones.

The radiator gives one sharp click,

a metal tooth snapping in the dark.

Then the air just holds its breath

waiting for the light to come back.