Signal From the Orchard

At the edge of the old orchard, antennas of grass sway like a choir learning a new hymn. A fox steps through the fallen fruit, its coat a flare in the late bronze light.

Somewhere, a radio hums in a shed with dust like flour on the workbench. Its dial is a moon, its whisper a tide, tuning the air to what was once said.

I lift an apple and feel the bruise as a map of weather, of small storms. Even the worms have their thin psalms, carving a sentence I can almost hear.

Night arrives slowly, a net of ink. The orchard holds its breath, luminous, and I stand between signal and silence, listening for the future in the leaves.