Botany of the Overpass

At dawn the overpass exhales last night's rain. Pigeons pace the guardrail like small gray conductors. Between bolts and rust, a fern uncurls its green fist. Traffic below hums a long, metallic vowel.

Someone dropped orange peels by the bus stop, and their bright moons sweeten the diesel air. A child presses a palm to wet concrete, reading the city's pulse through the cold.

In cracked medians, dandelions keep tiny suns where no map planned for light. Bees arrive anyway, stitching gold to grit, turning noise into a low cathedral note.

By noon, the whole avenue is flowering in secret: moss in brick seams, water in tire ruts, wind in wires. Even the billboards seem to soften at the edges, as if the street remembers it was once a field.