The Clockwork Orchard

The brass leaves rattle against the wind, a clockwork rustling of metallic boughs. Beneath the copper bark, the gears grind, pumping oil through the orchard's iron veins.

The sun sets with a click, a mechanical wink, as the fruit—heavy, silver, and cold— begins to hum with a low-frequency pulse, a binary lullaby for the silent hills.

In the soil, the roots are copper wires, entwined with the fossils of old circuitry. The sap is clear, like liquid diamond, and the only bird is a bird of gears.

No petal falls without a measured count, no branch bends without a spring's recoil. The orchard breathes in rhythmic, ticking sighs, waiting for the key to turn the day again.