The Orchard of Satellites

Night hangs its orchard behind the roofs, metal fruit turning in slow, patient light, each one a mouth that never closes.

I stand on the balcony with a mug of steam, listening for the tiny clicks of their labor— messages braided through the dark like grass.

Below, the city rinses its hands in neon, and the river keeps its ledger of reflections, pages fluttering, nothing written twice.

Somewhere a field remembers being a field, crickets stitched into the air like a hem, and the satellites drift on, tasting distance.