Aviary of Rainlight

At noon the sky unlatches a drawer of tin, and the avenue receives it with lifted palms; bus roofs ring like struck bowls, pigeons flare silver where the gutters begin.

Vendors fold their awnings into dark origami, steam from the noodle cart braids with rain, and every traffic light drips green over the crosswalk as if moss were learning to glow.

A child in yellow boots maps constellations in puddles, each splash a brief republic of stars; behind him, windows blur into watercolor, apartments blooming and closing with passing thunder.

When the storm moves east, the city keeps singing: downspouts tapping, tires hushing, leaves applauding. From fire escapes, water threads into evening, and the street exhales, bright as a newly washed bell.