Tin Roof Observatory

At dusk the laundromat windows turned to aquariums, shirts drifted like pale fish behind the glass. Above them, tin roofs tuned themselves to weather, every drop a small bright knuckle on a drum.

I climbed the fire escape with a jar of peaches, the syrup catching the last orange of day. Across the blocks, antennas leaned like reeds, and trains stitched sparks through the darkening cloth.

When rain came, the whole city became an instrument: gutters fluted, alley gates rang bronze, pigeons tucked their necks beneath wet stone angels, and steam rose singing from manhole mouths.

I thought of my mother counting storms by seconds, how she taught me distance with a kitchen spoon. Tonight I count nothing, only listen, while the roofs keep time for what I cannot name.