The Orchard of Quiet Satellites

In the orchard, each tree is a listening post, branches lit by the slow pulse of moths. A damp wind turns the air like pages, and the moon lays a silver ruler across the rows.

Far above, the small machines hum their soft errands, threading our weather through invisible needles. We feel their stitching as a coolness on the skin, a forecast whispered into the sleeves of our coats.

I walk between trunks, counting the steady patience of apples still unripe, green as bottled light. They hold the day inside them, a pressure of sweetness that will only answer to the deeper cold.

When I leave, the orchard keeps my footsteps, pools them in the moss, covers them in dew. The satellites keep circling, quiet as prayer, and the trees continue to listen to the night.