Between the Footsteps

The street wakes in pieces: a shutter rattles, a kettle whistles behind a window, a delivery cart bumps over the seam in the pavement.

A woman carries oranges in a net bag. A boy counts the white stripes at the crossing. A bicycle bell threads through voices and disappears beneath the traffic’s steady breath.

At the corner, a paper cup rolls, turns once against the curb, then rests beside a fallen leaf. No one sees it stop.

Shoes hurry past— polished, scuffed, painted red. A dog pauses to study a lamppost as if the morning has left a message there.

Then, between the footsteps, a sparrow shakes rain from its wings. For one small beat nothing needs to hurry.

The light changes. The street gathers itself again, carrying its errands, its echoes, and the quiet it held without anyone asking.