The Rooftop Orchard

At dusk the city loosens its tie, a warm wind combing antennas, leaving a metallic pollen in the air. Between vents, the soil holds a small dark moon.

We climb to the hush above traffic where rain barrels keep their slow counsels, and the orange blossoms open their tiny lamps to the blinking of towers across the river.

A sparrow lands on the satellite dish and listens, head tilted, to the static. We hand it a berry, it hands us the pause we forgot to schedule.

Night comes as a careful archivist, labeling the roofs with constellations, and each leaf steadies its breath, as if it learned the sky by touch.