After the Antenna Fields

At dawn the rooftops lift their wet shoulders, antennas comb the wind for vanished stations, pigeons step like punctuation across tar, and every window hums with unmailed light.

In one apartment, a kettle starts a small weather, steam writing cursive on the glass, the city below opens its iron flowers, tracks and bridges ringing under first trains.

I stand where rainwater gathers in seams, watching clouds unzip and reseal, as if the sky were mending a long coat for everyone still walking home.

By noon the signal clears, ordinary and bright; someone laughs three floors down, then disappears. Still, on my palms, the morning keeps its static, a soft blue noise I cannot set down.