Cartography of Static

At the edge of the city, a radio tower rehearses the sky, a thin needle threading silence with its silvered pulse. Below, the river keeps a ledger of neon and rain, its pages turning in the dark.

In a kitchen lit by the blue of the dial, I tune between stations and hear the ocean in the hiss. A voice arrives, then unknots itself into weather, as if someone far away were folding a map.

The cat sleeps on the windowsill, a warm comma. Across the glass, moths test the light like coins on a scale. I think of all the messages that never found their address, letters of static, undelivered, still singing.

Before dawn, the tower goes quiet for a breath. The river keeps writing, the dial keeps turning. Somewhere a city wakes to the hum I can't hold, and I keep listening for what it means.