Atlas of Small Signals

At the roof's edge, the antennas bow like reeds, listening for a language too faint for traffic. A moth circles the red exit light, its wings a soft stutter against the glass.

Down below, the bakery vents release a warm weather, yeast and metal braiding the air. A cyclist passes, a seam of blue light, stitching the block shut for the evening.

In the laundromat, drums turn the week's clouds, white shirts, a tiny weather system. Coins fall like small eclipses, and the floor hums with a patient tide.

Somewhere a radio scans between stations, finding the grain of silence, the shape of distance. The city holds its breath and exhales, an atlas of signals we only feel in our skin.