Signal Gardens

We plant our antennas in the dusk like reeds, listening for the river that is not water, for the soft arithmetic of far-off storms turning their static into moth-light.

In the kitchen a bowl of oranges glows, each peel a small continent breathing, and the dial blooms its red eye, hungry for the names we almost remember.

Above the roof, the sky is a cold orchard, stars hanging with the patience of old bells; we wait for one to ring, a clear note that could split the quiet into doors.