The Orchard of Signals

On the roof, the anemometer turns a quiet alphabet, its cups like small moons catching a restless wind. Below, the city exhales a warm metallic breath, and distant trains sew their hum into the dark.

I stand among antennae and a potted rosemary, listening for rain in the empty dish of the sky. Even the clouds seem tuned to a frequency of slate.

A siren bends around the river and disappears, leaving a blue smear on the tongue of night. Somewhere a window opens, a kettle begins to sing; steam rises like a soft flag of surrender.

By dawn, the instruments will remember nothing, but my hands smell of iron and leaves. The wind writes its report across my face, and I carry it down like fruit in my pockets.