The Weather of Glass Orchards

In the abandoned glass orchards, morning hangs like a clear bell, unstruck and full of blue. Pears of light swell on the ribs of empty trees, and the air tastes of iron and thaw.

Wind moves through and rehearses a language of soft collisions: pane against pane, a rain of tiny suns skittering across the aisles. Moss writes green alphabets on the frames, patient as a slow tide in a bottle.

Somewhere a fox threads its flame between trellises, its paws a hush on the grit and glitter. The clouds go by like ships with no port, their shadows rowing over the broken rows.

By noon the heat unbuttons the orchard, each branch surrendering its cold memory. What was fruit is now a held breath, a halo you could carry if your hands were careful.

At dusk the glass cools and the day folds itself. Crickets begin their small machines of night. I leave with a pocketful of clear weather, and the orchard stays, listening to itself.