Seedfall Orbit

Night opens like a hangar; old satellites loosen their quiet bolts and begin to drift down through the weather of dreams.

I walk a field where their skins are leaf-thin, silvered with frost, faint circuits scribbling constellations on my palm.

Each one carries a last message—static, yes, but inside it a hum of meadow and rain, a memory of sky learning to be soil.

By morning the town smells of hot metal and clover, and we plant the cooled shells in rows, waiting for light to teach them how to grow.