Signal Garden

On the roof where antennas once argued with weather, someone has set basil in chipped satellite dishes. Morning leans across the metal like warm milk, and the city exhales a blue, electrical hush.

Pigeons step through dew as if reading braille, their throats flashing coins of green and violet. A train below combs sparks from the rails, each window carrying a small, temporary moon.

I water the leaves with a dented kettle, watch steam mingle with laundry and cloud. Far cranes pivot slowly, patient herons of steel, lifting tomorrow in quiet, measured arcs.

By noon the dishes hold only sun and shadow, yet the basil keeps writing its fragrant script. Even rust can learn the grammar of growth, even noise can open into song.