Glasshouse for the Listening Wind

At the edge of the city, a greenhouse of radios blooms, leaves of copper trembling under a patient storm. The wind walks the aisles, turning every dial a little, as if seeking its own name in the static.

Behind the glass, soil is warm with old applause. Seedlings lift their pale throats toward a chorus of distant weather. Somewhere a lighthouse hums like a held breath, threading its light through the ribs of the sky.

We learn to read the rain by its metallic syllables, a soft percussion on the roof that writes itself and fades. A moth rests on the antenna, its wings a folded map, its silence loud as a field under snow.

At night the greenhouse becomes a blackened ship, drifting in a sea of stars that never touch the glass. We stand inside, listening for the first true wave, and answer with our smallest, steady signal.