The Orchard Below the Platform

At first light the station exhales iron rain, and commuters descend like pockets of weather. Between the rails, a stripe of moss keeps burning its small green wick against the soot.

Someone dropped orange peels weeks ago; now their perfume survives as a rumor of summer. A violin busker lifts one note, then another, threading daylight through concrete ribs.

Pigeons patrol the ledges like old librarians, nodding over torn tickets and newspaper moons. Every departure board flickers a different future, yet the floor remembers every pair of shoes.

When my train arrives, wind turns pages of dust. I step inside carrying that underground orchard: moss, citrus, bowstring, wings, a whole morning rooted where nobody looks.