Copper and Glass

The streetlights flicker in their final pulse, a rhythmic dying that mimics a heartbeat slowing before the sun decides to breathe. The asphalt is cool, holding the ghosts of midnight tires in its porous skin.

Windows reflect a sky of bruised violet, catching the first sharp edge of light that cuts through the smog like a silver needle. The architecture of the empty morning is a blueprint of silence and heavy stone.

A single crow claims the traffic light, surveying the grid of sleeping machines. The hum of the transformer is the only song, a low vibration through the soles of boots that have yet to begin their daily march.