Orchard of Signals

In the old orchard the wires hum like bees, insulators glazed with rain, greened with moss. Each tree wears a thin ear of light, and the wind carries a distant engine's breath.

I come with a pocket radio, cracked dials, listening for the seam in the sky. Static is a sea: I wade it barefoot, finding shells of language on the shore.

A fox slips through the rows, lantern-eyed, tailing a thread of music no one else hears. The apples are small suns cooled by night, their scent a map to a forgotten room.

When morning finally lifts the fog, the orchard is a bell that has stopped ringing. I hold the quiet like a warm seed, and plant it where the road turns home.