Signal Garden

Before the trains wake, the station breathes in blue, steel rails holding a thin line of frost like handwriting left on glass by night. A pigeon lifts, and the air rings once.

At the bakery corner, light spills warm as yeast, windows fog, then clear, then fog again; inside, loaves bloom their patient weather, outside, shoes whisper over yesterday’s rain.

Phones glow in pockets like captive fireflies, maps pulse, names flicker, routes revise. Yet one old man waters geraniums in a tin can, and every red flower steadies the morning.

When the sun arrives, it does not conquer. It gathers: rust, steam, bicycle spokes, a child’s laugh skipping three cracked steps, and makes a small republic of bright things.