The light turns green.

Out of the depot pours the continuous stream of yellow-orange pods.

They move like ants,

single file at first,

jockeying for the lead,

then dispersing.

Like homing pigeons

with seemingly choreographed maneuvers,

they dance across the dashed lines and in between the rows of trees.

They scurry off to their destinations,

one single mission,

primed to transport their precious cargo,

conveyors of potentiality.