Cartography of Quiet Signals

At the edge of town, the antenna farm bends, metal ribs in a slow wind, tuning the dusk. Each tower listens like a tree without leaves, holding the sky by thin, humming threads.

Down by the river, a ferry of moths crosses the light from a single window. Their wings are soft maps, scribbled with dust, navigating by the warmth of a breath.

I pocket a pebble, warm from the day, its weight a small planet, a private orbit. The night pulls long shadows across the field, as if time is stretching its limbs.

Somewhere a radio mutters in sleep, a kitchen clock learns the pulse of the dark. I walk home through static and scent of rain, carrying the quiet signals between us.