Radio Crackling, Radio Gone
Thousands of planes were flying and then
they stopped. We spend days moving our eyes
across makeshift desks, we sit on a makeshift floor;
we prepare for almost nothing that might happen.
Early on, distant relations kept calling.
Now, nothing: sound of water
tippling a seawall. Nothing: sparks
lighting the brush, sparks polishing the hail,
the flotsam of cars left standing perfectly still.
Thud of night bird against night air,
there you are on the porch, swath
of feathers visible through the glass,