Green Antenna

Atop the apartment block, the satellite dish cups last night’s rain like an ear left open. Moss stitches its quiet map across the metal, soft as breath on a cold trumpet.

Below, traffic combs the avenue with light, red and white teeth moving through dusk. In every window a different weather: steam, television snow, a child practicing scales.

The dish keeps listening past the broken channels. Spore by spore, it learns a slower language, one syllable of water, one of rust, one green vowel held through winter.

By spring the roof has turned into a shoreline. Pigeons step like careful ferrymen. What once hunted distant stars now gathers small constellations of dew.