Tuning the Orchard of Antennas

At dusk, the antennas bloom like winter trees, branches of aluminum breathing the thin blue wind, each leaf a dish turned toward a different silence, each trunk wired to the underground's small thunder.

A technician walks the rows with a pocket radio, listening for the minutes, the weather, the voices spilling from oceans as if spilled seed, his boots pressing the soil into a low, patient music.

Night arrives as a low tide of light. The orchard hums in its unseen harvest, gathering hiss, static, the tremor of distant storms, and the soft arithmetic of planets turning.

By morning the frost has written white cursive across the cables, a script no one teaches, yet it says: the world is a field of signals, and we are the ones who stand still to hear.