The Orchard of Quiet Signals

In the orchard, lanterns hang like muted moons, pears breathing faint light through their skins. A wind turns the grass into a slow green river and the soil keeps a patient archive of footsteps.

Somewhere a wire hums under the fence, messages traveling without a mouth. I listen with my palms to the bark, to the small electricity of sap and rain.

A child once pressed a coin into the trunk, for luck, for a door that might open. The coin has warmed into the tree, a secret bell, ringing only in spring.

Night settles, and the branches are rivers too, each leaf a boat with a sleeper inside. I count the quiet signals until dawn, then let them go, bright as unspent seeds.