Calvin Miceli-Nelson, Every morning when the sky pours down onto the street in a thick fog, long gray strips of cloud bend across the sky in rows. While each strand decays slowly over the course of the morning hours, quiet rays of sun start to crawl over the top of the trees. Suddenly the mist departs almost all at once, leaving the air warm and dry. In the empty sky, the light runs down from the rooftops to the faces of the buildings. And after stretching across patches of rustling leaves, and branches, and street lamps and signposts, it lays gently up against the skin until the sky arrives at its most placid position seeming entirely flat, like a pane of blue glass., 2026