The Orchard of Static

At the edge of town a field of antennas bends, thin reeds combing the wind for names. Snow of dust drifts across the fence line, and the sky clicks softly, like a lock.

Inside the shed, a glass jar holds a summer storm, blue light folded into a tight fist. I set my ear to the jar and hear the bees we once mistook for rain.

A rabbit prints its small signatures in ash, each mark a vow and a departure. The mountains sit like unopened letters, their folds sealed with cold.

I walk home with static in my pockets, coins that hum when I turn them. Night builds a porch out of shadow and pine, and the world leans in to listen.