The Hourglass Orchard

At the edge of the city, an orchard keeps its hours in the throats of glass fruit, each one fogged with noon; wind turns the branches like a slow key, and the ground listens, palms open to spill.

A child once hid a coin under the oldest tree, told it to wait, to become a seed of metal; years later the soil still hums a small bright note, as if the earth remembers promises by weight.

Evening arrives with its blue apron, pockets of moths; the apples darken to bruises of constellations, and the air tastes of iron and sleep. Night is a patient farmer, counting by touch.

When morning comes, it shakes light from its sleeves, and the orchard answers with a soft clatter of time; each fruit a small hour caught mid-breath, each hour a fruit that refuses to fall.