Rooftop Conservatory at 4 A.M.

The city is a dark piano, lid half-open, rain tapping one patient key after another. On the grocery roof, basil leaves hold small moons and the vents breathe warm animal breath.

A woman in orange gloves turns the irrigation wheel; water threads down strings like glass beads. Tomatoes glow in the sodium haze, lanterns taught to ripen from the inside.

Below, buses kneel and rise at empty stops, their doors opening for no one but wind. Up here, mint bruises the air into music, and every stem leans toward a rumor of morning.

When first light spills between office towers, the puddles remember they were once sky. She clips a handful of green and slips downstairs, carrying dawn in a paper bag.