The Copper Weight of Dusk

The sun drags its belly across the iron girders, leaving a smear of rust and violet light. The river below is a bruised ribbon, thick with the silt of the city's long day.

Cranes stand like frozen herons, their long necks bowed toward the shadows. The wind carries the scent of salt and diesel, a low hum that vibrates in the marrow of the piers.

One by one, the amber lamps blink awake, beating back the tide of encroaching blue. A freighter groans in its heavy sleep, tethered to the shore by chains of cold silence.

We are the small fires in the gathering dark, witnesses to the slow collapse of the sky. The world settles into its skin of glass, awaiting the moon's pale, clinical touch.