Orchard of Satellites

The morning opens like a field of cold brass, every antenna lifting a quiet ear. Clouds sift their flour over the roofs, and the city becomes a slow radio.

In the alleys, puddles hold the sky in splinters, each shard a small rehearsal of the horizon. We walk through these reflections carefully, as if crossing a room of sleeping animals.

Above us, the satellites swing their tiny lanterns, seeding coordinates into the wind. They listen for our breath, for the old names we buried in envelopes of static.

By noon, the heat melts the last frost from the railings, and a sparrow shakes loose a note of tin. The day hums on, threaded with unseen fruit— orbital apples ripening in the blue.