The clouds loomed low from the clothesline
hung out to dry
An omnipresent dread preached a pregnant silence
holding us awry
whorls smeared windows
trying to put our fingers on it
this thing amiss in our lives
the streets rustled with paper and plastic bags
time passing slowly, interminable
the roads wore a sheen reflecting traffic lights
nothing was astir but for white cloaks of bags willowing on the air
with long fell swoops arching as a bird
flying on the wings of an impenetrable blur
a predator in concert
a plastic pterosaur
before falling, inert.