After the Rain on the Overpass

At dusk the overpass exhales heat, and rain begins as a soft percussion on guardrails, on hoods, on the closed kiosk window, turning each sound into a silver thread.

Below, the river carries torn flyers like pale fish learning the current. Brake lights bloom in red commas across the wet grammar of the street.

A child in yellow boots stamps a constellation into a puddle and laughs at the sky. Steam lifts from asphalt in ghostly ribbons; the city loosens its shoulders.

When the storm moves east, everything keeps shining: leaf, billboard, bicycle chain, stray cat eye. Night leans close and listens, and even concrete smells briefly alive.