The Antenna Grove

At the edge of the town, a grove of antennas leans, thin metal reeds combing the dusk for weather. A field of listening, still as held breath.

Each mast keeps a small hunger, a private tilt, toward thunder, toward the old choir of satellites. Crickets rehearse in the grass; the sky hums in low vowels.

I walk between them and feel the air thicken, as if voices could be weighed like rain. Static tastes of iron and pine.

Some nights the wind drags stories through the cables— a far-off train, a name once whispered into a pillow, the map of a voice folded and unfolded by distance.