Moss Under the Overpass

At dawn the overpass drips like a caved-in cathedral, concrete ribs humming with trucks and leftover thunder. In the seam where shadow keeps its cold breath, a braid of moss lights up, green as struck copper.

Rainwater gathers in bottle caps, in bolt heads, small planets holding the sky in broken grammar. A sparrow lands, drinks from a rusted screw, and the morning tilts, tender, toward the weeds.

Someone chalked a name on pillar twelve; the letters blur, then bloom with spores. What we abandon learns a slower music, root-note, drip-note, tire hiss, wind.

By noon the city forgets to look down, but the moss keeps writing in wet syllables. Every overpass has a hidden orchard of patience, every ruin, a mouthful of light.