Orchard in Low Orbit

At dawn the city hangs below like spilled circuitry, rivers bright as solder under thin cloud. I keep an orchard in a ring of old satellites, apples learning gravity by letting go slowly.

Each trunk is wired to a patient sun, panels tilt, gathering a hymn of light. Leaves flicker silver-green in vacuum glass, and bees of software map their amber routes.

When I prune, sparks drift from the shears and freeze into brief constellations. The fruit tastes of rain no one has yet, of streets remembered by their thunder.

Tonight I send one seed back home, wrapped in foil, warm from my palm. If it opens in some rooftop crack, let it teach the bricks how to breathe.