Signal Garden

At the edge of the city, a field of dishes tilts like pale sunflowers practicing attention. Night lays a cool hand on their metal shoulders, and the grass hisses with rain in the wiring.

Above them, old satellites drift like seeds gone wild, carrying yesterday's weather in their hollow cores. We cannot taste the storms they once translated, but the air still murmurs in their slow orbits.

I walk the service road and count the red blink of towers, small beacons spelling a language only moths know. Every fence has a memory of touch, rust and wind braided into a soft refusal.

Somewhere, a dial turns and a quiet room fills with static, a snowfall without light, without winter. I imagine the static as a map of breath, a garden of signals no longer planted.