Seedbank of the Sidewalk

Between the curb and the first plane tree there is a pocket of rain that listens. Pebbles learn the taste of tin and leaf. A bicycle bell passes like a small silver fish.

Under the asphalt, seeds keep a quiet library, slim pages folded against years of salt. When water arrives, they open without a sound, green letters rising through grit.

I watch the gutter become a slow river, carrying a map of last night's wind. A wrapper turns its back, becomes a boat, and the streetlight hums like an organ pipe.

By morning the puddles are gone, but the soil keeps the story, cool and dark. The city breathes through tiny pores, and something patient stirs in the mud.