Glass Orchard

At dawn the city exhales, a slow lit bellows, steam combing the rail lines like breath from a flute. Windows catch the first sun and hold it, a brief orchard of glass ripening in place.

I walk past a bakery, its warm loaves speaking, their crusts the color of old maps and cinnamon. A child traces a dragon in fog on the bus glass, then wipes it away, as if mercy were a sleeve.

On a bridge, the river keeps its ledger of tin, tapping the pilings in an accountant's rhythm. Below, bicycles glitter, quick fish of the street, and I count my steps like coins going home.

Evening arrives with a soft metallic bloom. The sky folds into itself, a paper lantern dimming. I pocket the day as if it were a key, and the locks inside me answer, quiet and open.