The Orchard of Antennas

At dawn the rooftops wake before the people, hives of signal dishes turning their pale faces east. A gull lands on the highest rail and the city hums like a plucked wire.

Between brick chimneys, laundry lifts its flags, a white shirt filling with weather and rumor. Below, buses breathe at the curb, doors opening like brief confessions.

I carry coffee up the metal stairs and watch first light comb the windows. Every pane catches a different hour, small harbors of amber, blue, and smoke.

By noon the antennas look like young trees, thin branches listening for distant rain. All day they gather unheard music and pour it, invisible, into our rooms.