Estuary of Streetlights

At dusk the avenue opens like a wet violin, windows tuning themselves to amber, a tram bell slipping through rain as if someone struck a glass star.

A baker drags flour-light from his sleeves, and pigeons rise, gray handkerchiefs, while puddles keep the whole district upside down, its neon ribs breathing underfoot.

On the bridge, the river gathers every rumor: bootsteps, laughter, sirens far away, then folds them into black silk, stitched with the patient needles of towers.

By midnight, even the billboards soften. The city leans close, smelling of metal and bread, and in each lit room a small weather turns, a private moon behind a curtain.