Atlas of the Abandoned Orchard

The fence leans like a tired compass, its wire humming a low metallic hymn. Between posts, the orchard keeps its quiet, a map of trunks, each scar a latitude.

Wind moves through the grass in braided phrases, lifting the scent of damp bark and iron. A fallen apple begins a slow biography, its skin stippled with the fingerprints of rain.

I walk the rows and hear old ladders creak, not from weight, but from remembering hands. Somewhere a pump coughs in its rusted throat, and the well repeats the word down, down.

Evening folds the branches into silhouettes, a dark embroidery against the last light. Crickets tune their small instruments of heat, and the orchard, abandoned, goes on bearing weather.