Cartography of Quiet

At dawn I unfold the town like a linen map, alleys creasing in my palms, roofs still warm from night. A stray bicycle bell rings once, then evaporates, leaving a small silver hinge in the air.

The river keeps its inventory in slow motion— reeds tallying the wind, stones numbering the current. A heron lifts, a pale letter torn from the page, and the water closes around the sentence.

In a vacant lot, grass makes its patient bright decisions. Dandelions compose brief suns in the dirt. Children’s chalk ghosts of hopscotch squares wait for the feet that learned them to return.

By evening the streets are a long exhale. Windows glow like held breath under thin curtains. I fold the map, slipping the day into my pocket, and walk home inside its soft, precise borders.