Estuary of Streetlights

Before dawn, the avenue exhales rain, a long brass note held by empty buses. Puddles cradle whole constellations until a gull steps through and breaks Orion.

Bakery vents breathe warm anise into the cold; steam climbs the scaffolds like a patient choir. A cyclist passes, chain clicking soft as teeth, and windows begin to unbutton their light.

At the river, cranes stand in prayerful angles, red eyes blinking above the freighted dark. The tide lifts wrappers, leaves, a lost receipt, teaching each small thing the grammar of return.

When the sun arrives, it does not shout. It lays copper on railings, honey on brick, and every wet branch writes the same bright sentence: we were briefly night, and now we are singing.