Seed Library at Track Nine

In the station where departures once hissed, drawers now breathe of paper and loam. Timetables yellow on the wall like moth wings, and each envelope rustles with weather not yet born.

Children slide fingers over names of beans and moons, Cherokee Purple, Blue Lake, Rainier flint; the loudspeaker, long retired, holds a nest of swallows, their throats tuning the rafters to April.

An old conductor stamps checkout cards with gentle thunder, ink blooming like small eclipses on our palms. We leave carrying pockets of future thunderstorms, tiny hard commas waiting to finish a sentence of soil.

By dusk the rails catch light like wet knives, and beyond the fence vacant lots begin to soften. Night trains pass without stopping, windows full of strangers, while under our nails a green country starts to speak.