Underpass Constellations

At the mouth of the underpass, rain hangs like silver wire, and every passing bus combs it into trembling chords. Puddles hold brief galaxies of brake-light red, then spill them at my shoes like warm coins.

A cyclist drifts through steam from a bakery vent, jacket glittering with droplets, a portable weather. From a cracked speaker, a trumpet leans into blue notes, soft as smoke threading the ribs of the street.

Above us, office towers blink in sleepless code, floors turning on and off like distant lighthouses. A woman laughs into her phone, then vanishes at the curb, her voice still bright in the wet concrete.

When the storm thins, the city keeps its pulse, manholes breathing, gutters whispering leaf and grit. I walk home under wires stitched with water, carrying a sky that learned to live close to the ground.