Antenna of Salt

I drift above the blue bruise of the planet, my panels thin as winter leaves, sipping sunlight through the gauze of ion. No one calls my name anymore.

Below, storms stitch and unstitch the sea— white needles, a dark hem. I listen for whales in the static, for the long vowels of depth.

Once I mapped the breath of hurricanes, counted the heat in their spirals. Now I hold only my own hum, a pocket of silence that keeps me warm.

Night spills its ink around my hull, stars like rivets in a widening seam. Somewhere, a lighthouse blinks to no one, and I answer with a slow, forgotten blink.