Moss on the Satellite Dish

Rain begins as radio static on the roofs, a thin hiss combing the antennae, while a satellite dish gathers dusk like a cupped hand taking soup.

By morning, a green grammar appears: moss writing soft vowels in the rust, mailboxes breathing out steam, the alley bright with overturned sky.

A bus exhales at the corner, windows fogged with strangers and bread, and each wet tire turns a black coin of daylight through the street.

Nothing announces the change. Still, on the metal bowl above the stairwell, new velvet keeps drinking weather, teaching the city to listen with leaves.