The Orchard of Satellites

In the backyard of the sleeping city I string a ladder of tin bowls to the sky, each one catching a different tone of dark, a thin music spilled from distant antennas.

A satellite orchard blooms above the fence, silver fruit turning slow, no wind at all. I hear their husks whisper of forgotten maps, of oceans rendered in light, then erased.

On the kitchen table, a glass of water holds a small universe of wavering stars. My hands are warm, my name is ordinary, and still the constellations lean toward me.

Morning will break the spell with angles and errands, but for now the yard is a quiet relay, signal to signal, pulse to pulse— I stand among the open frequencies and listen.