Tin Orchard at Dawn

At first light the freight yard exhales rust and fennel. Between rails, rainwater holds a pink sky like breath. A gull steps through oil-slick constellations, and every puddle rehearses the sun.

From a cracked loading dock, volunteers lift black soil into old television shells, glowing now with basil. Antennas gone, they listen with leaves; small green mouths learn the grammar of wind.

By noon, tomatoes swell where static once lived. Bees stitch bright thread between broken screens. Children press their palms to warm glass, watching roots write cursive into darkness.

At dusk the city hum lowers to a cello note. Trains pass, and the garden does not flinch. In each red fruit, a patient ember, proof that metal can remember rain.