Underpass Orchard

At dawn the underpass exhales warm iron, pigeons lift like gray handkerchiefs from the beams, rainwater keeps a small sky in each pothole, and buses comb blue sparks through the mist.

From a seam in the concrete, fennel rises, thin as handwriting on a forgotten letter. Its scent edits the diesel from the air, turning traffic into a slow green chord.

An old woman sets oranges on a milk crate, their skins lit from within, pocket suns. Commuters pass with screens against their faces, yet every glance catches fire for a second.

By noon the city is still a machine, but somewhere beneath it roots are listening. They drink what we spill, what we cannot keep, and practice the language of another season.