After the Thunder, In the Stacks

At noon the storm leans against the library glass, and the windows turn to darkened ponds. Shelves breathe cedar and old glue; lightning flips each title to silver for a beat.

Between atlases, rain drums its braille on the roof. A child traces coastlines with one clean finger, as if countries were sleeping animals, as if borders could be stroked into kindness.

The power blinks; every spine becomes a silhouette. In the hush after thunder, pages lift and settle like pigeons deciding whether to rise. Someone laughs two aisles away, small and warm.

When the clouds spend themselves and drift east, the room smells of paper, ozone, wool coats. We step outside carrying borrowed weather, our arms full of books, our pockets full of light.