The Radio Orchard

On the roof the antennas lean like winter pear trees, their ribs of aluminum counting the wind. Beneath them, the city exhales steam, and a pigeon sleeps in the shadow of a dish.

At dusk the radios bloom—soft static, small blossoms. A voice from the coast rolls in like tide over gravel. We lift our cups of tea to the hiss, as if to toast the distances we can’t hold.

Inside, my grandmother folds maps into cranes, each wing a street she once walked. She listens with her eyes closed, and the room becomes a harbor without water.

Night jars the signals; they scatter like seed. Some fall into our mouths, bitter and bright. We keep the ones that ring in our bones, planting them in morning, hoping for weather.