Atlas of Quiet Signals

Tonight the radios are moths in glass, pinning their delicate static to the air. I draw a map of every small hush that drifts between their wings.

A lighthouse far inland keeps turning, its beam grazing corn, then the black road. I mark that slow rhythm like a tide that never learned the word for salt.

Somewhere a train exhales at a siding, steam writing brief poems on the cold. I copy the syllables before they vanish, inked on the inside of my palm.

By dawn the page is a sky of faint dots, constellations made from what didn't speak. I fold it into my pocket and walk, guided by those quiet coordinates.