Sitting under clear-yet-treed nighttime camping skies we look up the long trunks of them to the blinking of the stars above. And right where Orion has done up his belt, right where the snout of nyingarn the echidna pokes into the black holes of space looking for ants, a friend spots a satellite passing through, north west to south east, then another a few seconds later on the same line, then another, then another—a dozen at least in relatively short succession, almost all of them following the same line; same way that the sun and moon and planets all more or less follow the same line, with the zodiac moving more slowly beyond them. Except, here, it is some other line altogether, so much faster, irregular—something man-made amongst nature’s rhythms—rhythms we at first helped fix, and now move and bend to our own will. Where is the lawful next?