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A recorded reading of “Orange Weather”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
On the office block, a gull worries a chip packet. Below, traffic threads its red lights through rain. Windows brighten, floor by obedient floor, each room sealed around its little human weather. I wait for the seam— the place where painted sky gives way to glass. Not gold. Not thunder. The colour that comes when the last sun finds oil in the rain. At dusk, the glass takes fire one floor at a time. In the last lit room, someone reaches for the switch. The room goes dark. The windows keep burning.
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