Greenhouse Before Sunrise

At three a.m. the greenhouse hums like a held violin. Tomato vines climb strings of condensation, each bead a small planet trembling on its axis. Outside, frost writes white script on the loading dock.

A freight train passes, slow as a thought learning breath. Its windows carry brief aquariums of light, and every seed tray answers with a darker green, as if roots could hear iron through concrete.

On my phone, weather maps bloom in false colors: amber rain, cobalt wind, a bruise over the river. I mist the basil; the room becomes an inland cloud, and my sleeves smell of pepper, rain, and pennies.

By dawn, the glass is pink with a shy fire. The city wakes in metallic syllables. I clip one leaf, hold it to the sun, and taste a summer that has not happened yet.