After the Rain, the Panels Sing

At dawn the rooftops hold shallow lakes, sky broken into blue coins on glass. Sparrows step between mirrored suns, their feet ringing tiny weather on silicon.

Steam lifts from tar like breath from horses. Moss threads the seams, a soft green circuitry, rewiring the city by patient inches while traffic below rehearses its metal thunder.

Each panel drinks light and rain together, storing noon inside an evening battery. In kitchen windows, kettles begin to whistle; the whole block hums like a throat clearing for song.

By night, the storm is only a salt trace, a map of clouds left in drying arcs. Above us, roofs keep harvesting tomorrow, quiet as leaves, bright as held water.