Rooftop Observatory of Seeds

At midnight the rooftops unbutton their heat. I carry trays of basil and meteor dust, city windows blinking like aquariums, each pane a fish turning once in sleep.

Under a red work lamp, seedlings lift thin wrists. Rain barrels murmur in the language of gutters. A train passes below, dragging a silver chord, and every leaf trembles to the same low note.

I tuck cracked eggshells around a tomato stem; the moon polishes them into little harbors. Somewhere sirens open and close like accordions, while mint keeps writing green breath into the dark.

By dawn, glass towers drink the first pale fire. Pigeons land, formal as old librarians. I pocket one pepper seed, warm as a pulse, and descend carrying a small weather of summer.