Rooftop Tidepools

After the storm, the roof keeps water like a palm, little basins holding sky, coins of light. Pigeons circle, undecided about the blue that trembles in each shallow bowl.

Vent pipes rise like reeds from a drawn-back sea. A plastic cup becomes a harbor for a leaf that spins and settles, a slow compass pointing nowhere but the moment.

Below, the avenue polishes itself with buses, its long metallic sighs threading the block. Up here the puddles listen, and their thin skin carries the song without a speaker.

By dusk, heat sips the pools away. The roof returns to tar and gravel, unlit. I pocket the damp and walk downstairs, a quiet tide in my sleeves.