The Garden That Learned Signal

In the abandoned greenhouse, a radio hums like a bee that forgot its hive, stitching faint weather into the glass, each pane a held breath of light.

Fern fronds curl around copper wire, sleeping antennae that tilt toward thunder, and the soil keeps secrets in slow vowels of rust, rain, and old batteries.

I touch a leaf and it answers with static, soft as moth wings in a lampshade, a choir of distant kitchens, a kettle, someone laughing three towns away.

Night settles like a damp coat on the roof, and the plants keep listening— roots braided with signal, chlorophyll thick with story, the garden learning to speak by becoming a sky.