Atlas of Rainlight

At dawn the train yard exhales a silver breath, puddles hold whole stations upside down, a gull stitches white thread through diesel fog, and every rail hums like a tuning fork for weather.

I walk where storefront glass still wears the night, neon unbuttons into rivers at my shoes, newspapers bloom against the curb, wet peonies, headlines dissolving into soft blue pulp.

From an open bakery, heat drifts like cedar smoke, yeast and thunder braiding in the narrow street; a woman shakes rain from her umbrella, stars of tin, coins of water ringing on the stone.

By noon the sky folds clear as laundered linen, but the city keeps its hidden second skin: alleys bright with leftover constellations, small galaxies drying in the sun.