Aqueduct of Morning

The old aqueduct wakes without water, arches holding up a pale blue hush. Swallows stitch the air like quick needles, and the stones breathe out yesterday’s heat.

I walk the channel where a river once rehearsed, where moss keeps a cool, secret green. Wind carries the odor of rusted iron, and the city’s far sirens thin like thread.

Then the sun arrives and pours itself through, spilling gold into every dry curve. The empty trough becomes a river of light, and my shadow swims, startled and alive.

By noon, the arches are a choir of shade, teaching the ground how to be patient. I leave with dust on my hands, a quiet that sounds like water learning to return.