Compost Choir at Dawn

At the alley's end, the compost drums sweat in blue plastic, banana peels curl like small moons in their sleep, coffee grounds darken the morning with weather of cafes, steam from the bakery drifts over, blessing the bins.

A sanitation truck arrives before the birds commit to song, its forks lift yesterday's dinners, wilted bouquets, paper napkins, all the soft things we couldn't keep, and the streetlights blink out one by one, relieved.

By noon, heat works the pile like a patient orchestra, orange rinds loosen their bright oils into the air, eggshells become pale syllables, cracking toward silence, and flies write brief cursive above the turning.

Weeks later, in the community garden, we open black bags of finished earth, it smells like rain learning a human language, tomato starts settle in as if returning from exile, and every fruit is a small, red apology accepted.