The Glass Orchard

On the old factory roof, mirrors bloom like wild lilies, turning their bright faces toward a patient, inland sun. Each tilt is a small confession of heat, a choreography of glint and rust.

Below, the streets keep their slow river of buses, and the air smells faintly of metal and rain. Above, light is gathered into crates of warmth, stacked in quiet, humming rooms.

At dusk the orchard closes its silver eyes, and the mirrors cool like coins in a jar. Pigeons settle on the frames, soft engineers listening to the city’s electrical sleep.

Night arrives with a velvet toolkit of stars. In the dark, the glass still holds the day’s imprint— a faint orchard in the mind of steel, harvesting tomorrow by remembering today.