Platform for Migratory Light

At first light, the station roof held rain like a thin sheet of hammered silver, and every departure board flickered as if the day were being translated.

A woman unwrapped an orange on the bench; the scent moved through cold air like music, bright and sudden, a small sun opening between steel columns and wet coats.

Pigeons lifted from the tracks in one breath, their wings striking sparks from the morning; somewhere a kettle screamed in the kiosk, and steam wrote temporary weather on the glass.

When the train arrived, its doors sighed apart. We stepped in carrying our unfinished weather, and the city slid backward, rivered with windows, while the horizon kept widening its pale mouth.