Orbit of Quiet

A dish of aluminum turns in the black, listening to the bruise-blue planet where day washes over cities like breath, and my solar panels drink the thin light.

I count the slow metronome of eclipses, becoming a clock that no one winds. Meteoroid dust ticks on my skin, a soft hail in a country without weather.

Once I carried voices, stitched with static; now I send my own small hum, a lullaby to the ionosphere, hoping the Earth still hears me thinking.