Minding the Stars and Satellites

I know when I look at the night
sky, it’s insignificant whether
I can identify the star or satellite
preparing the same advertisement

playlist for all my digital devices.
It’s insignificant because a certain
fracture of the populace believes
most birds are drones, so at the last

family gathering an aunt and uncle
explained how to distinguish God’s
creature from government oversight
by watching: the drones have rigid wings

and birds fly natural. Last time
I registered a vehicle into a credit
bureau, it knew where I frequently park,
who I ride with, what my friends drive,

all the options of who I am
laid out in neat little rows
on the screen for me to select.
Yesterday afternoon, a vulture flew

overhead, its wings unmoving
in the windless air so I watched it circle
through binoculars until the bird blinked,
flapped and landed on whatever

death it chose to eat. I keep reading
about another management team failing
their subordinates, this time
a collapsed building and sifting rubble,

the discoveries unmentionable.
It’s insignificant, unmentionable, but last night
I swore a satellite
crept closer as I took out the trash.