From “Drift” by William Preston

I remember the day it really started.
The city as empty as a stage sprawled before us.
One o'clock drifted through,
the snow outside stacked on top of cars.
I stepped outside and slipped back inside and said, look at this.
We stepped outside as a silent symphony of reds and blues against
the white canvas of the city vanished.
Twisted in the wind, shaking and covered,
it felt like nothing was quite real that day.