The Quiet Physics of Moss

Under the overpass, moss rehearses its green vowels, small lungs lifting against the ribs of concrete. It drinks the seeped rain like a rumor, and holds each drop as if it were a bell.

I walk with a phone that wants the sky, but the sky is busy misplacing its blue. Between traffic and birds, I hear a softer current, the slow electricity of shade.

A seed rides the wind like a thin letter, arriving without address, without apology. It learns the grammar of cracks, how silence can be a place to grow.

By night, the city spills its light in squares, and the moss keeps its own dark hymn. It makes a map of patience on stone, a quiet proof that time still has hands.