Orrery of Soil

The hill keeps its slow diary in layers, coal scripts, chalk breath, a seam of rain. Ants carry quartz like minor moons, and the root's hand writes in the dark.

A radio tower listens to the ground, its metal ribs tasting the heat of summer. Signals arrive like migrating rivers, editing the map with every storm.

I kneel and hear the stone practicing patience, the long vowels of pressure and frost. A seed turns on its axis of silence, a small planet deciding to begin.

By dusk the earth is an orrery of soil, each clod a orbiting story of light. We stand in the field, not owners but weather, passing through the hum we will someday become.