Greenhouse for Sleeping Satellites

At dusk the retired dishes on the hill tilt their white throats to a weatherless sky. Between their bolts, foxglove roots in rust, and moths rehearse the color of static.

I walk the service road where cables once sang, rainwater carrying copper taste over my tongue. A red kite hangs from a snapped transmission wire, as if the wind still needed instructions.

Night opens; each dish becomes a shallow lake holding one torn coin of moonlight. Crickets stitch around the concrete pads, patient as seamstresses mending silence.

By dawn the hill is a small, bright orchard: dew on steel, pollen on warning signs. What we abandoned learns another grammar, and the earth, unhurried, says it back.