Atlas of Quiet Signals

Tonight the relay towers blink like slow fireflies, red syllables stitched across the ridge line, and the hills answer with their dark, patient hum. I stand in the yard, a listener with empty hands.

A moth brushes my sleeve, powdered with moon. It drifts between poles as if reading a map written in voltage and wind, a soft geography of routes no eye can hold for long.

Somewhere a satellite turns its cold cheek, and the river below mirrors its arc, silvered like a page being turned by a reader who has learned to read in silence.

I think of migration not as leaving, but as a constant audition of light, of bodies learning to be brief and still arrive, wings unscathed.