Seed Vault at Dawn

At four a.m. the city exhales steam, and bakery vents braid with river fog. Under the train tracks, keys ring once, a small sun opens in the lock of the seed bank.

Drawers slide out like winter constellations, paper envelopes whisper against my palms: okra, millet, blue lupine, moonflower, each one a sleeping verb with dirt in its mouth.

Outside, buses kneel and lift their tired doors; inside, I label glass with careful rainwater script. My breath clouds the metal table, then clears, as if the room is teaching me weather.

When morning finally salts the windowpanes, I carry a tray of beginnings to the alley light. Pigeons tilt their necks like old philosophers, and the first sprout keeps its green secret, then sings.