The Silent Orbit

Satellites drift through the frozen arch, spinning slow tales of aluminum and glass above the slumbering curvature of the earth.

No wind to carry the static of their birth, they hum a forgotten binary frequency, waiting for signals from a dusty control room.

Decades turn like the slow arc of a shadow across craters untouched by human breath, until the final battery yields to the cold.

We watch them burn in a sudden flare, a brief shooting star against the atmosphere, an erasure written purely in fire and ash.