Platform for Migratory Light

At the old rail terminal, rain rehearses on cracked timetables. Seed packets sleep where tickets once warmed in pockets. Pigeons lift like torn envelopes from the rafters, and the loudspeaker, rusted mute, still holds a breath of departures.

Volunteers label jars with names of vanished orchards: Ashmead's Kernel, Black Oxford, moon-peach, bitter pear. The room smells of paper, loam, and wet wool coats, a small weather system turning in from the tracks.

Children press palms to the glass of the germination cabinet, watching green commas uncurl into sentences of stem. Outside, freight cars groan through dusk like distant cello strings; inside, every sprout is a clock refusing to hurry.

By closing time, we sweep husks and silence into piles. Someone pockets sunflower seeds for the apartment fire escape. Night arrives in iron blue, carrying the city's cold spark, and the station keeps glowing with pockets of April.