The sounds are still,

Silent now in the wake of madness.

The crowds came through like locusts,

Digesting everything in their path as

Huge earthmovers rearrange landscape.

The air is frigid and wet, an arthritic’s nightmare.

Paper detritus blows in the breeze, a dance without music.

The anniversary has passed, the revelers gone home,

Their legacy filling the large garbage trucks

That will prowl the predawn streets before traffic.

But here, now, it’s still night, and cold, and

The sounds are still.