It seems to happen at least

once or twice every year;
the slow weeping of light
flickering into darkness,
the quiet of the storm unheard. 
The midnight sky is never as dark 
as I expect it to be, but it’s the quiet
that gets to me: the buzzing songs
of a box fan replaced with an infinite
silence, the uncaring hum of tinnitus,
reminding me the world will always
return to the simple truth of the quiet dark.