Rooftop Almanac

At dusk the roof exhales warm tar and basil. Satellite dishes tilt like silver sunflowers after light. A freight train drags a long iron vowel through the blocks. Pigeons fold the evening into their soft gray pockets.

From cracked planters, tomatoes glow like small red lanterns. Rainwater in a bucket keeps a torn sky trembling. My hands smell of mint, rust, and pennies. Somewhere below, a siren combs the avenues with blue teeth.

Night rises floor by floor, window by window, until the city is a hive of lit cells. Bees sleep inside their wooden box, dreaming hexagons, while airplanes stitch pale thread across the dark cloth.

Before dawn, the first wind lifts newspaper and seed husk. I write tomorrow on a seed packet with a blunt pencil. When the sun arrives, it arrives without apology, and every leaf turns its green ear to listen.