The Map of Minor Rivers

I spread the old atlas on the kitchen table, creases like dried beds where water once talked. The ink is a weather of thin blue whispers, a lesson in how the world learned to listen.

In the margins, unnamed streams drift like breath, braiding through fields that no longer exist. I trace them with a finger, slow as dusk, and the room fills with the sound of small bridges.

Somewhere a hillside remembers its rain, somewhere a culvert hums in the dark. The map is a hush of provisional paths, a choir of trickles choosing their way.

I fold the paper, river over river, and the house takes on a distant glint. Outside, the streetlight starts its pale pour, and I hear water in the wires, traveling.