Rooftop Greenhouse at 3 A.M.

At three a.m. the city kneels in sodium fog, and on the roof the greenhouse holds its small weather. Tomato vines climb strings like careful handwriting, each leaf cupping a bead of artificial dawn.

The vents breathe out a warm, wet sentence. Below, ambulances stitch red threads through avenues. Inside, basil darkens the air with pepper and rain, a moth taps the glass as if checking a pulse.

I water trays of seedlings no wider than thumbnails, tiny flags of green lifted from black, mineral sleep. Somewhere, offices glow with sleepless spreadsheets; here, roots listen to gravity and choose descent.

When morning lifts its pale coin over antennas, the panes go briefly blind with light. I leave with soil under my nails and a steadier heart, as if I borrowed dawn and returned it multiplied.