Signal Weather

At dawn the server farm exhales into fog, white breath threading the chain-link like wool. Above it, geese tilt south in a clean equation, their bodies writing answers no screen can keep.

Puddles hold the sky in shattered blue plates, and cables buried under gravel hum like bees. A maintenance light blinks red in the drizzle, as if one small heart were learning weather.

On the loading dock, a worker unwraps an orange, peel spiraling down like a bright satellite path. Citrus and wet metal share the same cold air; somewhere, a router clicks and the flock reforms.

By night the racks glow patient as greenhouses, raising invisible crops of memory and need. The birds are miles away over dark water, but their wingbeat still trembles in the wires.