Between the Hum and Silence

The city holds its breath at that angle where light fractures against chrome and glass— neither morning nor evening, just the space where someone's leaving and someone else arrives.

A pigeon lands on concrete still warm from the sun's forgetting. Yellow lines fade to suggestion. The traffic light blinks red for no one crossing, for everyone who might.

In the scaffold of buildings time pools like water, waiting to spill into the next hour. A window lit too early, a window lit too late— how do we measure the distance between them?

The city breathes in its ordinary light, and I am temporary, a moth pressed against the glass of becoming.