Solar Orchard

At dawn the rooftop wakes before the street, planter boxes sweating a metallic dew; between antennae, peach saplings lift their wrists, and the city listens through a thousand windows.

Elevators cough below like distant brass, while bees map hexagons across reflected sky. A woman hangs laundry beside a satellite dish, and every shirt becomes a brief white sail.

By noon the asphalt glows like hammered coins, pigeons drink shadow pooled under solar panels. The fruit is small, green, hard as held breath, but wind keeps practicing sweetness in the leaves.

When evening leans its copper shoulder down, the towers burn, then cool to violet glass. Hands on balconies pass bowls from rail to rail, and night tastes faintly of basil and rain.