Listening to Static

In the pause between stations, something blooms— not music but the ghost of it, white noise gathering itself into almost-shapes.

Your finger hovers on the dial. Which frequency holds what you need? The air is thick with voices you've already forgotten.

Outside, the rain knows something the sky won't admit. It falls in patterns older than language, speaking only to the earth that listens.

We are all tuning into our own particular silence, waiting for the signal that never quite arrives, learning to love the static.