The Orchard of Streetlights

At dusk the avenue begins to bloom, streetlights opening one by one, small amber fruits above wet asphalt, a harvest no hand can gather.

Buses pass like tired whales, their windows full of drifting faces; in each pane, a brief aquarium where someone mouths a name and loses it.

Rain lifts the smell of iron and leaves, and every puddle keeps a second sky, shivering whenever footsteps cross, as if stars could be startled.

I walk home carrying nothing, yet my pockets ring with distant bells: keys, coins, old laughter, all the bright seeds of what remains.