The Observatory in the Orchard

The orchard keeps a metal throat, a cupola of rust where ladders slept. Wind strings the cables like a harp and the apples listen, green and patient.

Inside, the lens is a clear eye that once drank comets like cold water. Dust is a slow snowfall here, each mote a planet with its own gravity.

At dusk the caretaker turns the crank, though the gears no longer agree. He opens the dome to the first star as if the sky might return a letter.

Night walks through the rows, a black fox. The moon rolls between branches and waits. In the silo of the milky way we store what light we can carry.