The Orchard of Satellites

In the field behind the quiet station old dishes tilt like pale sunflowers, their metal throats cupping a silence that tastes of dust and cooled lightning.

Morning frost beads on their ribs; a fox crosses, stitching the grass with paws. Somewhere above, a socket of sky hums, blue enough to make a vow in.

I imagine signals as windblown seeds, each one a soft code of longing, sifting down through the antenna forest, trying to root in the soil of a mind.

By afternoon the light goes amber, and every dish becomes a bowl of fire. We lift our faces, orchard and traveler, waiting for a harvest of distant voices.