The sky is an inky indigo, devoid of stars,
and so the bicyclist stands out: a shadow
wearing a red windbreaker.
But as he nears the intersection (and so do I,
caught by a red light), the lines fill in.
A face overshadowed by worry. Hands, pedals.
The shops and traffic lights shine neon.
The road is clear, dark, open to invitations,
lit by the sometimes glow of white headlights.
He rides on, and my radio station flickers static.
Raindrops spatter onto my windshield,
sparkling, tiny as a child’s glitter.