City of Sleeping Instruments

The train yard exhales, a low brass breath, steel ribs cooling under a violet sky. Puddles hold the moon like a dropped coin, and the city listens with its lights half-closed.

In a shuttered shop, violins dream of sap and snow, their varnish a still pond for the last day's dust. Streetlamps hum in a key of amber, while traffic fades to a slow, soft drum.

I walk between warehouses, past a mural of hands, palms open as if to catch tomorrow. A stray cat threads the fence like a thin melody, and my footsteps keep time with the warm, distant engines.

When morning arrives, it is a tuning fork of wind. The roofs ring once, then settle. Somewhere, a window opens, and the first kettle sings— a bright note lifting the night away.