When the Overpass Learns the Tide

Before dawn, the overpass holds its breath, steel ribs beaded with fog from the river. A freight train passes like a struck cello, and pigeons lift, scattering silver punctuation.

On the median, milkweed splits its seams, letting out soft parachutes of weather. They drift through brake lights and coffee steam, small moons refusing the grammar of lanes.

At the bus stop, a nurse folds night into her pocket, salt on her cuffs from someone else's fever. She watches the east unclasp, one button at a time, while gulls rehearse the shoreline over asphalt.

By full morning, the city pretends it is fixed, but even concrete is a kind of slow water. Under every address, a hidden current turns, teaching stone and bone to move without leaving.