Rooftop Distillery

At noon the rooftops glitter with shallow pans, a thousand mirrors tilted toward a stubborn sun, pigeons stepping between them like careful priests, their throats full of purple weather.

Beneath each sheet of glass, the sea forgets its salt, lifting itself in invisible choirs, condensing into clear syllables that slide down copper ribs into waiting drums.

Children climb the fire escape with empty bottles, their laughter striking sparks off railings, and every drop they catch sounds metallic, bright, like keys finding the right house at last.

By evening the city smells of warm stone and rain that never fell from a cloud. We drink the horizon remade by light, and the moon rises, patient as a second reservoir.