Astrolabe in the Orchard

The orchard keeps a grammar of frost, commaed branches holding their breath; a rusted astrolabe hangs from a limb, its brass mouth full of moonlight.

I turn it once and the air begins to ring, a thin bell somewhere under the soil. Apples gone to shadow sway in the dark, small planets remembering their weight.

Beyond the fence, the river unspools like silk, stitching silver through the sleeping fields. My hands smell of iron, cedar, and cold stars; I read the sky by touch and quiet.

Before dawn, the east loosens its blue knot. Birdsong tests the edges of the world. I leave the instrument where it can weather, and walk home carrying one bright hour.