Estuary for Distant Signals

At dusk the city opens like a wet matchbox, tram wires hum in a thin metallic key, and puddles keep brief galaxies where passing shoes erase whole constellations.

A bakery exhales cinnamon into the rain; steam climbs from grates like patient animals. On the bridge, a cyclist carries home a bouquet wrapped in yesterday's weather.

Windows flicker on, one lung after another, apartments breathing soup, soap, television blue. Somewhere a violin is practicing scales, each note testing the dark for a place to land.

I walk until the river learns my name, its black surface stitched with amber light. Night lowers its careful hands on every roof, and the town keeps singing under its breath.