The streetlights and the traffic light over the intersection stuttered once and failed when the truck glanced off the power pole at the crest of Main Street at the top of the quarter mile glide down into town.
Engine dead, headlights blind, inertia carried it forward and gravity gave it wings. The sky’s blue hour pulled the last purple edge behind it and, with the glare of the streetlights gone, Bea looked up at the sweeping arc of stars aligned in the blackness over her head.
In the moments after the lights went out there was a three count before the fireflies and crickets struck up a round of applause and then fell back to the serious business of finding husbands and wives before dawn.
from "Murders in Monkeytown" c. Deborah Lacativa 2014