The Cartographer of Rain

At dawn the city unrolls a wet map, alleys shining like fish scales under buses, and a woman on the corner folds thunder into the black ribs of broken umbrellas.

She stitches each tear with silver thread, listening to gutters practice their long vowels; steam rises from the grate beside her boots, a small weather of ghosts around her hands.

Commuters arrive with storms still dripping, pockets full of train tickets and apologies; she turns their ruined canopies inside out, teaches them the grammar of opening again.

By evening, clouds lift like theater curtains, windows strike fire from the sinking sun; the street departs carrying repaired rain, and her needle keeps one bright drop for the moon.