In memory of Arthur C. Clarke (The Sentinel)

When they saw you, they knew, as if eons of time had collapsed into this instant: the smooth surface, the faint light absorbed, the silence.

Space was unforgiving, and you had waited such a long time, in the absolute solitude of the desolated moon.

But now you are awaking, at your feet the small ants look up at you in awe, at the unstoppable thrust, at the slowly revealed mystery.

Rocks fall around you, and you are still, just the apex of this marvel:

A billion year-old artificial satellite.