Dear Norman Rockwell,

20 feet in depth,
The snow falls and drifts,
Lazily blanketing the landscape.
Workers jerk their brushes over crestfallen cars.
A murder of crows fly overhead,
Fear swells from your pen,
And you dot the sky with some kind of fervor.

This is the main event.
This is the big ticket.
You are the headline act,
One we all came to see!

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Until there’s nothing left.
Nothing left to be seen here, anyway.