The Orchard of Silent Kites

In a field where kites have no string, the wind teaches them how to hover, like letters never sent, lifting the grass. The orchard listens with its barked mouths.

A ladder leans into a sky of cobalt bruises, apples dim as planets at dusk, each seed a small clock that refuses time. I touch one and hear a slow bell of rain.

The creek writes its cursive along stones, silver syllables I cannot translate, and the reeds bow as if to a chamber music played by the unseen throat of the valley.

Night arrives on felted paws, collecting the day in a lantern jar. Above, the kites go quiet, still aloft, their shadows resting like folded wings.