The Hours in Brick

Morning cuts the street in half— one side gold, one side blue. The geometry of light makes strangers of familiar corners.

By noon the shadows have retreated into doorways, under awnings. A woman waits for something that won't arrive, but the light doesn't question her vigil.

Afternoon softens the edges. Brick bleeds into mortar, and for a moment the city forgets it was built by human hands— becomes something older, something that grows.

Evening. The light is tired now, turning everything to copper. Even the pigeons know this hour, how the day collapses into itself, how we are all just waiting for the dark to make us beautiful again.