After the Power Outage, the Orchard

When the city goes dark, the pears begin to glow with their own weather, a pale green breathing between power lines and sleeping windows, as if the moon had chosen a branch to live in.

I walk the service road by memory and wet leaves; transformers cool like kettles after argument. Somewhere a child strikes a match for a birthday candle, and the flame sounds small as a cricket in a jar.

By dawn, the orchard has rewritten the block: roots lifting asphalt, ants ferrying sugar like prayer beads, a fox crossing the bike lane with careful ankles, its fur catching first light like a struck violin.

When electricity returns, it feels almost impolite. Screens wake, clocks forgive themselves, coffee speaks. Still, in my pocket, one pear keeps warm, a quiet lantern I can eat when night comes back.