Signal Under the Orchard

I walk the orchard after rain, the branches still wearing their beads of light, each leaf a small lens holding the moon in a trembling fist, and the ground breathing up a cold, green steam.

A radio tower stands beyond the rows, its red eye blinking like a patient metronome; the air around it tastes of iron and distant storms, and my pockets hum with the old maps of the body.

Somewhere, far below, cables whisper through silt, carrying a braided choir of messages and tides; I imagine my name crossing that dark, like a fish turning its silver flank toward a net of stars.

In the shed, the apples wait in their wooden crates, still as sleeping animals, their skins dappled with day. I set one to my ear; it keeps a quiet weather and a small, persistent frequency of home.