Glasshouse Weather

At the station of first light, pigeons lift like gray handkerchiefs from the tracks, and the roof of glass keeps yesterday's rain in trembling commas above our heads.

Vendors roll up shutters with a metallic hymn; oranges glow in crates like pocketed suns. Someone hums through a cracked speaker, and steam from paper cups braids with breath.

Beyond the turnstiles, towers awaken, window by window, a slow ignition. I carry one small suitcase and my mother's scarf, its threadbare fringe smelling faintly of cardamom.

When the train arrives, it does not promise, it only opens, bright and ordinary. Still, I step in as if entering weather: a moving room where distance learns my name.