Static Orchard

In the hillside's old observatory, we prune the night with bare hands, cutting away the glittering noise until only a dark, ripe core remains.

The dome breathes like a slow lung, metal ribs cooling under frost. Somewhere a moth collides with glass, and the impact becomes a tiny bell.

We gather static in a wicker basket, soft as wool, as if from a patient sheep. It smells of dust and cold circuits, of textbooks left open to wind.

At dawn, the orchard unhooks its stars. We leave with our palms humming, carrying the unspoken in our pockets like seeds that prefer the shade.