Water Tower Choir

At dusk the rooftops turn to shallow seas, metal and tar catching the day's last ember. Water towers stand like patient whales with ribs of slats, holding the sky in their throats.

A train below unspools its iron ribbon, the city stitching itself through shadow. In the glass of a quiet office my face floats, an old coin in a fountain.

Rain begins as a thin, silver handwriting scribbling margins along the brick and stone. Each drop a small bell, a brief bright vowel, each gutter a mouth learning a hymn.

Later, steam will rise from grates, ghosts of the streets lifting their gauze. I walk under the slow umbrellas of trees, listening to the towers sing me home.