Atlas of Small Weather

Morning unzips its silver raincoat, steam lifts from manholes like a shy chorus, a bus sighs at the curb, releasing warm air that smells faintly of cinnamon and wire.

I walk through crosswalks that blink like eyelids, puddles holding brief planets of neon, each step a soft percussion on the slate, each breath a ticket punched by the wind.

In the park, a sparrow raids a crumbed horizon, a child spins, tethered to a scarf of laughter, planes stitch a pale seam across the blue, and the day tightens, button by button.

By dusk, the city folds itself into a pocket, streetlights bloom like paper lanterns in water, I carry home the day's small weather— its hush, its grit, its bright, unspent coins.