Billboard Dawn

At dawn the wind unzips the billboard skin, and light falls through it in long brass ribbons. Pigeons step like tiny conductors on the rails, cueing the city into a softer key.

From the laundromat vents, warm clouds of soap drift over crates of tangerines at the curb. A child stacks peel after peel into small suns, each one bright enough to rename the street.

By noon, scaffolds bloom with hanging jackets, sleeves filling with weather, then emptying. Somewhere a trumpet practices one stubborn note until it turns from metal into breath.

Evening gathers coins of rain in the gutters, and neon writes its cursive on the puddles. We walk home carrying groceries and thunder, ordinary as bread, radiant as glass.