After the Rain Collects the Sky

At dawn, the avenue is a wet piano, every puddle holding one bright key of sky. Bus wires hum above the crossing, and steam lifts from grates like soft, unfinished prayers.

A sparrow lands where a taxi idled all night, drinks from the mirrored moon left in the gutter. Neon loosens from the storefront glass, spilling red syllables over the curb.

People pass with umbrellas folded like dark wings, their coats beaded in small, cold constellations. From a bakery door, warm air rolls outward, carrying cinnamon and yesterday’s laughter.

By noon the sun will erase these silver pages, but for now the city reads itself aloud: stone, water, breath, and the slow brass of light, all of it ringing inside the same clear bowl.