When the Satellite Came Home

Before sunrise, the sea held its breath, a sheet of tin rubbed soft by fog. Far out, a seam of fire unstitched the dark, slow as a match drawn under water.

The old satellite fell like a remembered name, letters burning off one by one. Gulls tilted, silver knives in the wind, while fishermen watched with their engines quiet.

Metal turned to petals of orange and white, then ash, then nothing the hand could keep. Only a warm streak laid across the horizon, like someone had underlined morning.

By full light, waves were already rewriting it. Nets went out; coffee steamed in dented cups. Still, in each face, a brief reflected blaze: proof that even ruins can teach the sky to sing.