The Orchard of Quiet Machines

In an orchard where the apples never fall, small machines hum under the bark, counting the sugar of dusk, and the wind keeps their ledgers in leaf-light.

I walk between rows of copper roots, each tree a quiet radio tuned to bees; their wings are soft static that combs the air into golden thread.

Somewhere a kettle of rain is simmering, steam stitching the sky back together; the machines grow slower, listening for the moment a storm remembers its name.

Night arrives with a basket of dark water, and I lift one apple, warm as a pulse— it tastes of thunder and old circuits, of how we learn to keep time with living things.