Dish Garden at Dawn

On the apartment roof, a retired satellite dish holds last night's rain like a silver bowl. Sparrows arrive first, stitching the morning with quick brown commas over the city steam.

Moss has learned the geometry of signal and static, soft green math across aluminum ribs. A dandelion lifts one bright antenna, broadcasting pollen to the wind's indifferent towers.

Below, elevators sigh, screens wake, markets open; up here, water trembles at each passing train. Clouds drag their sleeves through the dish's mirror and leave a pale weather inside it.

By noon the puddle will thin to a skin of light, yet roots keep spelling their patient alphabet. What was built to listen for distant voices now hears the planet breathing at its feet.