Fiber at Dawn

Before sunrise, the avenue hums under frost, streetlights lean like tired astronomers over puddles, a bus exhales its warm blue breath at the curb, and wires above me pluck one patient note.

In the bakery window, dough rises like weather, yeast and diesel braid in the air, delivery bikes stitch silver arcs through mist, each spoke catching a coin of early light.

Beneath the sidewalk, data rivers keep moving, fiber carrying birthdays, apologies, weather reports, all that private weather of a waking city threaded through tunnels older than names.

When the sun finally clears the water tower, brick walls turn briefly to open books, and every window answers with a page of fire before the day folds it back into ordinary hands.