Orbit Over Wheat

At the edge of June, the wheat leans like listening crowds, each stalk holding a green ear to the sky. Above them, satellites thread westward, small silver fish crossing a black river.

The tractors are sleeping with their mouths of iron shut, but the field hums on in insect choirs. I lie between furrows, smelling rain in the dust, and count the moving lights that do not blink.

Somewhere, cities lift their neon weather, screens bloom, contracts are signed, elevators rise. Here, a fox steps out and pauses, copper and hush, as if even hunger can be taught wonder.

When the first drop breaks on my forehead, the constellations blur into milk and motion. The wheat bows, the satellites keep going, and the night learns to carry both engines and crickets.