The world under a bluish-gray blanket
Lies quiet and still as a child caught reading.
She listens to the shudder of semi-trucks and mufflers
Like a father’s obnoxious snoring.
Bulbs glow ghostly on top of lampposts,
The stems of flashlights left upended and
Their fluorescence, attempted to be smothered
By the palms of the clouds, upon being discovered,
Flushes warm pink and orange—
Suddenly it is morning.