satellite

Machines of refined metal and ceramic
pass overhead, radiating their secret light.
Another machine of polymer and silicon
must translate these sacred mysteries.

Sometimes a voice I love,
smooth and gentle, secure
in the hush of snowdrifts.

Sometimes overpowered by a nighttime sandstorm,
each grain's random anger coded in binary,
separately transparent, but collectively blotting 
the Milky Way like a wave of ink across the sky.

©1999 Timothy A. Clark