The Orchard of Satellites

At dusk the radio towers begin to bloom, red bulbs opening one by one in the wind, and the valley fills with a pollen of signals that settles on roofs, on fields, on our skin.

We stand in the dark behind the old observatory, hearing the grass turn silver under frost, while above us the satellites pass like quiet fish, their bellies flashing, then gone.

My mother once said every message is a seed: it waits in the cold of distance, then splits when a listening ear gives it rain, sending a thin green syllable into the world.

So I speak your name into the humming night, and somewhere a dish turns, a circuit wakes, as if the sky were an orchard learning spring, as if light could carry fruit across the years.