Cooling Towers at Night

The cooling towers breathe like slow whales exhaling fog into the sodium glow. A chain-link horizon shivers with rain, and the night keeps its receipts in puddles.

Inside, the servers hum a hive of blue, each rack a ribcage lit from within. Fans turn the air into a low tide, pulling heat away like a sleeve of silk.

On the roof, pigeons roost beside antennas, warmth rising through the tar into their feet. They blink at the blinking, small metronomes, and the city’s pulse counts itself to sleep.

Beyond the fence, a cyclist passes, soaked, trailing a ribbon of streetlight on the asphalt. Somewhere a river threads under the roads, carrying the day’s messages out to sea.