Weather Report for an Unwritten Map

At dawn the river rehearses silver syllables against the pilings of the old ferry dock. Fog lifts like gauze from a healing shoulder; the city wakes by naming its windows.

I walk where train tracks comb the weeds flat, rust red as dried pomegranate skin. Every bolt and nail keeps a small weather of memory, a rain of iron, a hush of departures.

In the market, oranges glow like pocket suns, and knives ring bright on wooden boards. A woman laughs; the sound flocks upward, settling on awnings, on pigeons, on my breath.

By night, streetlights stitch gold into puddles. I carry home their trembling thread. Tomorrow is not a door but a coastline, arriving slowly under the dark's blue hand.