Manual for Growing Lightning in a Jar

At dusk the rooftops open their rusted palms, and rain arrives like a choir tuning in the dark. Neon wavers in every puddle, as if the street is learning to breathe through glass.

I carry an empty jar through the crosswalk glow, collecting the brief blue sparks of passing tires. Thunder writes its rough cursive over the river, while windows blink awake, one by one, like fish.

Under the awning, strangers steam in wet wool, coins ringing softly in a paper cup. The bakery exhales cinnamon and heat, and the night folds us together without names.

When the storm thins, I lift the jar to my ear: it holds the hiss of gutters, a distant train, the small electric hum of everyone going home. I set it on the sill, and the room turns weather.