Atlas of Quiet Signals

Morning lays its thin copper on the windows, antennae of rooftops counting the air. A sparrow rewinds the silence between sirens, and the street learns its own pulse again.

In the subway, phones bloom like cave moss, glowing where stone remembers water. Strangers share a hush, held by the tunnel’s breath, as if each screen were a small lighthouse.

By noon, the park is a map of faint migrations— shadows traveling ahead of their bodies. A child drags a stick through dust, writing a river no atlas can keep.

At dusk, the city softens its hard edges, signs blinking like patient stars. I carry home a pocket of low light, listening for the signal that says: remain.