Rain Telegraph

Morning teaches the canopy to listen. Drops arrive like careful knuckles on bark, soft code tapped into lichened skin, a message the moss has been waiting to read.

At the pond, the surface flinches and rests, each circle a syllable widening its voice; the reeds translate with their green wrists, the frogs hold the rhythm in their throats.

A fallen log takes the long sentence of water, its rings counting years like beads on a wire; the scent of iron rises from soil, and the air brightens, letter by letter.

When the rain eases, the forest keeps speaking, leaves still trembling with the last punctuation; sunlight edits the wet sentences, and everything remembers the sound of being called.