Transit Garden

The last tram exhales at the corner, a silver animal leaving warmth on the rails; windows carry faces like small aquariums, each lit with a private weather.

Under the overpass, moss drinks neon, and puddles keep whole billboards upside down. A courier glides past with a box of flowers, petals breathing through cardboard seams.

In apartment kitchens, kettles begin their thin songs; steam writes temporary maps on glass. Someone waters basil on a fire escape, and the leaves answer with a greener dark.

By dawn, the avenue softens to milk-blue, trash trucks and sparrows sharing first rights to sound. The city lifts its scaffolds of light, and day climbs in, carrying a wet bouquet.