Atlas of Quiet Signals

At the reservoir the gates sleep open, rust humming. The water holds the last orange like a coin between teeth. Under the catwalk, moths thrum against the lamp's glass. A janitor's radio stitches the dark with faint brass.

Beyond the fence the city blinks, a field of distant sensors. I hear the pipes in their tunnel, a low whale turning. They carry yesterday's rain across neighborhoods, its small minerals clicking like beads.

On the embankment, weeds rehearse wind, each stem a thin antenna. A lone heron stands as if receiving a message. He moves only when the moon clears its cloud, and the water answers with a muted bell.

I think of what is kept and what is let go— the way a valve remembers pressure in its hand. Somewhere inside the dark machine of us a quiet signal keeps traveling, not asking for reply.