Signal Orchard

At dusk the antennas lean like wheat and the air tastes of warm metal and rain. Streetlights unpeel their oranges.

Up there the satellites drift—slow seeds scattered by a patient hand. Each one a small mirror combing the dark.

I walk under them with a paper cup, listening for the quiet click of messages folding into themselves.

Somewhere a server breathes, a sleepless orchard, branches of fiber humming in the soil. I step through the glow and feel the roots reply.