Cartography of Rain

In the gutter, the city keeps a small archive of what the sky forgot—pennies, a feather, a torn receipt glossed with stormlight, and the soft insistence of water finding a name.

A window trembles; an alley becomes a corridor of wet brick and citrus peel. I walk through the steam of my breath, listening for the minute when rain is only sound.

Across the square, umbrellas bloom like dark flowers, their ribs a loose geometry. A child sails a paper boat along the curb, and the map of the street redraws itself in ripples.

Later, the clouds part as if remembering a promise. Puddles hold the sky a moment longer before it leaves the ground. We go on, pockets heavier, quiet with weather.