Greenhouse on the Night Bus

Rain stipples the bus windows into moving glass gardens. Under the sodium lamps, umbrellas bloom and fold. A woman carries basil in a paper cup, its leaves breathing pepper into the wet aisle.

At each stop, the doors inhale the city: diesel, river mud, bakery steam, pennies. Neon writes quick prayers across our faces, then erases them before anyone can answer.

The driver hums one note through construction detours. Puddles break into silver scales beneath the tires. In the rear seat, a child counts lightning as if numbering fish in a dark aquarium.

When my stop arrives, dawn is only a rumor. I step down with the basil scent still on my sleeve. Behind me the bus glides off, warm and lantern-bright, carrying a small summer through the rain.