Municipal Constellations

Before sunrise, the sweepers arrive with orange halos, their brushes whispering along curb-stones like low violins, last night’s confetti, cigarette ash, and rain-soft flyers gather into small galaxies spinning at their feet.

A woman in rubber gloves lifts a broken bottle as if rescuing a shard of sea from the city’s throat. The truck exhales, hydraulic and warm, and gulls wheel down, reading the steam like prophecy.

At each intersection, puddles hold torn neon, pink and green trembling around a drifting leaf. Brooms stitch wet arcs across the asphalt, turning noise into order, order into brief light.

By seven, commuters inherit a cleaner morning and call it ordinary, call it Monday. But under every shoe, the avenue hums with the hidden music of those first hands.