Composting the Midnight City

At 2 a.m. the apartment block exhales heat through ribs of fire escapes and satellite dishes. I carry a bucket of orange peels to the rooftop, where moonlight turns each rind into a small brass boat.

The compost bin opens like a patient instrument; steam rises, dark and sweet as wet tea leaves. Banana fibers, coffee grounds, onion skins, a broken constellation learning how to be soil.

Below, taxis stitch yellow thread through avenues. Above, laundry lines hum in the wind's thin throat. I tip in yesterday's flowers from the corner shrine and hear the city soften, one petal at a time.

By dawn, sparrows test the rim with bright feet. The east window fills with green from nowhere, first shoots shouldering up through last week's weather, quiet as forgiveness, stubborn as spring metal.