NIGHTINGALE
In Nightingale, the streets are empty at eight thirty.
The snow falls every night starting at nine.
The other night, I saw some newcomers making snow angels in the street after hours.
I yelled at them to get inside, but they didn’t seem to understand English.
Soon, every other person was yelling from the safety of their home, warning them of the snow.
They kept playing, assuming we didn’t like the cold.
Morning came.
Their blackened, hollow bodies were frozen with smiles of uncontrollable laughter.
Their eyes were sewn shut with frost and delight.
Within hours, only the snow remained.
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