Greenhouse for Fallen Satellites

At dawn the scrapyard sweats under frost. Dish antennas bloom with beads of tin light. A fox threads between rusted panels, carrying morning in its red sleeve.

I lift a cracked solar wing; beneath it nettles have learned the geometry of stars. Their small fists hold rain like mercury, each drop a moon rehearsing escape.

From a severed cable, swallows launch as if the sky were stitched back by beaks. Wind turns the bent ladders into harps, and iron answers with a dark, patient chord.

By noon the heap is less a grave than orchard: metal trunks, bright weeds, a hum of wings. Even ruin keeps a greenhouse somewhere, warm with futures no blueprint could predict.