Winter pieces (V)

He walked down the quiet street, feeling the evening damp on his face and neck, keeping his hands warm in the pockets of his coat. Along the row of white houses lamplight filtered weakly through curtains onto porches and deserted lawns, on silent cars in shadowy driveways. A gauze of mist enveloped the steetlights. There was no sound other than his footfalls.

As he reached the corner he caught sight of a sudden illumination to his left, just above the sycamores, a pale light shining where he knew there was no moon. A moment later the plane broke from the haze. It wasn't large, a commuter jet he guessed, with wings that were fixed across the top of the fuselage, giving it a bit of the ungainly appearance of a seaplane. It was flying low but smoothly, lights flashing below and steady on the wing. Only then did he make out the faint drone of its engines.

In seconds it had burrowed into the clouds and once again was out of sight.