Atlas of Quiet Migrations

In the attic of the city, heat exhales from brick, steam beads on the window like a small, patient tide. Bats stitch their errands across the gap of the street, and the laundromat hums a lullaby without words.

A suitcase sleeps under the bed, smelling of cedar and rain, its brass corners dulled by hands that meant to leave. Maps curl in the dark like old petals in a book, waiting for a thumb to smooth them into morning.

Somewhere a train drifts past the river’s black glass, a silver thread pulling on the hem of the horizon. Dogs lift their heads, dreaming of footsteps, their paws running in place beneath the kitchen table.

I trace the air with a finger, draw a country of breath, each border a pause, each town a single light. The night keeps moving even when we do not, a slow migration of stars over the roofline.