Cartography of the Quiet Air

At the edge of the city, antennas lean like reeds, listening for the hush between weather reports. The sky is a page turning itself, inked by contrails and the long breath of dusk.

I study the map that never sits still— fronts like pale animals crossing continents, pressure falling as if the world is exhaling, colors shifting in slow, tidal chords.

Somewhere above, a machine stitches night to night, its tiny lens collecting our thin blue halo; it sends down a whisper of pixels, a cold hymn for warm roofs and open windows.

I think of you whenever the wind changes, how our names once fit inside the same forecast. Now the rain chooses other roofs, and I learn to read it like braille on the glass.