Atlas of Quiet Rivers

At dawn the town is a folded map, creases breathing, paper damp from night; I trace the pale rivers with a thumb and the streets unspool like thread.

A heron lifts, a gray apostrophe between the warehouses and the sky; its wings write silence on the air, a script only water can read.

Under a bridge, the river hoards voices— copper coins, a child’s lost whistle, the rusted hinge of a gate— all turning slowly, all still singing.

By noon the light is a careful surveyor, measuring stones, tall grass, the small repairs; I fold the map back into my pocket and keep walking, guided by the sound.