On the ridge it stood in quiet pride,
A silver ear to the cosmic tide,
Drinking whispers from stars afar,
Tuned to the hush of a dying quasar.
Bolts held fast through frost and noon,
It tracked the arc of the patient Moon,
Till a restless wind, with mischief bent,
Came howling up from the firmament.
It tugged and teased at strut and seam,
It rattled the frame like a waking dream,
Then—one wild gust, a brazen crack—
And dignity never quite came back.
For where once stood that noble dish,
A sentinel for every wish,
There sagged instead, in comic lack,
A folded shell—concave turned slack.
Like some great taco, wind-compressed,
Its curve now hugged its former crest,
A tortilla bent by unseen hand,
No longer ruler of sky or band.
The cables drooped like strands of cheese,
The feedhorn bowed with little ease,
And all its grand celestial aim
Collapsed to something… hard to name.
Yet still, perhaps, in that humbled shape,
It caught stray signals none escape—
For even folded, bent, askew,
It listened… as good dishes do.
Very nice, Sir Bard.
Jack
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Ted has shown us all the photo of a dish turned into a taco by the wind - ...