When the Harbor Cranes Begin to Bloom

At first light the harbor cranes wake like herons of iron, their necks hinged over water glazed with diesel rainbow. Fog moves through them, a choir in wool coats, and every cable hums the low note of weather.

On Pier Seven, salt climbs the pilings like old handwriting. A gull drops a mussel; the shell opens like a small bell. Forklifts blink amber through the mist, patient as monks carrying crates of oranges.

By noon the tide is a sheet of hammered tin. Children on the seawall trade names for constellations of rust. Even the siren, when it breaks, sounds merciful, a long blue ribbon pulled through the city’s teeth.

Toward evening, shadows stack themselves in clean geometry. Windows catch fire one by one, then let it go. The day unlatches from its steel machinery, and night drifts in, smelling of kelp and warm rope.