Rooftop Weather

At dawn the roofs unbutton their frost, vent pipes breathe like old clarinets, a gull drags a silver thread of light across the laundry lines of the sky.

On the fire escape, a pot of basil holds last year's rain in its dark wrists. The city below cracks open oranges, peel-scent rising with bus brakes and steam.

Pigeons drum their soft machinery against satellite dishes and rust. Even the antennas seem to listen, tilting toward a rumor of thunder.

By evening, windows kindle one by one; each square a small aquarium of hands. Night pours ink through the alley grates, and the rooftops keep the day's warm pulse.