Daily Haiku — Jul 15, 2026

This one earns its ending. The first line gives us something small and furtive: coy signals on walls, the kind of image that could belong to graffiti, coded messages, or the first cracks of dissent scrawled where authority can't quite erase them. The second line stays close to the body, worried glances, nervous sweat, keeping the poem physical and human-scaled rather than abstract. Then the turn lands hard. A revolution reframes everything that came before it, and suddenly the coyness and the sweat aren't just personal anxiety, they're the texture of history happening at ground level, before anyone's ready to name it that.

There's no season word here, but there's weather in it anyway, that close, humid tension before a storm breaks. The compression works because it withholds the word revolution until the image has already earned it. Read again, and the walls seem to be listening.