I had just paid for coffee when the grid
buckled across the valley, store by store.
The barista laughed at what the silence did—
we thought we’d wait five minutes, maybe four.

The highways held their breath, overpasses stilled.
The satellites spun mute, tracing their arc.
We watched the last plane circle, bank from hills,
and tilt its wing to find a field before dark.

The grocery shelves turned skeletal, then bare,
the freezers weeping water on the floor.
We met our neighbors’ eyes with time to spare,
the ones we’d only nodded to before.

Someone swore the cavalry would come.
Someone blamed a flare birthed from the sun.
We killed our cell phones, then a bottle of rum,
and passed it round until the night was done.

A child asked if the stars had always burned
that brilliant, bright against the coming black.
No one could answer. No one ever learned.
We’d seen the sky a thousand times and not looked back.

The morning comes without its usual hum.
A bird cuts through the silence, thin and clean.
We learn the worth of less, the gift of some,
and watch a new world stir, strange and serene.