The flames have gathered into a pool where the park used to be.  Children played there.  Mothers watched over their sons and daughters.  They cured booboos.  Now there are blades of yellow-red fire and black ash and black smoke spiraling out of the earth.

The dark disks hover a hundred yards above.  Yesterday morning, red beams of light shot from their undersides and scorched the dirt.

I watched, from the comfort of my home, through my window as if it were a television screen, as the world died.  There was no warning.  No ambassador made of silver.

The disks have not descended and their doors have never opened.

I step out onto the ground.  It cracks like glass under my heels.  The largest disk hums directly above.  I squint and I see windows.  Inside are thin silhouettes, looking down at me.  They study me.  One waves. 

I wave back.  Goodbye.