Cartography of Quiet Signals

I unroll the city at midnight, a paper river with streetlights like minnows, my finger following the hush between blocks where the bakery breathes its last heat.

Above, satellites drift like slow pollen, each ping a seed I cannot see, they fall into the roofs and gutters, teaching the rain to keep time.

I collect these signals in a jar of glass, a small tidepool of blue static, and listen for the one that says my name the way stones remember waves.

Morning comes with a soft inventory, sparrows auditing the wires, and I fold the map back into my coat, carrying the quiet as a compass.