04:13. The first drop does not wake it. There is no sleep to leave. Water crosses the upper skin, finds the cracks, and the whole flat country remembers how to open.
The green is not decoration. It is machinery returning to service: fungus holding shape, algae making sugar, stone keeping yesterday's heat under the rain.
For thirty-seven seconds the curb is a coast. For thirty-seven seconds the smallest thing in the street has weather, appetite, and a map.
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