Midnight owled past on a cloud drift, snowploughed high, never rumbled to let me know.
No text no call no hoot.
It is the weather they say. It dampens the transmissions, makes them crash to the powdered shroudfields lost among flakes.
After, I wait at the window, my face an aldis lamp of random messages as the sky switches its jags on and off.
Maybe they’re transmuted texts racing through in strobe morse over the trackless white like hope escaping bright from that box,
blinging windows like a flash crowd Christmas.
3 AM and waiting still, flash on glass, winter lightning.
EDITOR’S NOTE: This poem was selected from entries submitted to our Creative Challenge Series #42: Last Sentences, which required that the last sentence in the text must be used as given. Read other Creative Challenge winners. To find out how to participate, go to Creative Challenges.