Cartography of the Night Orchard

The orchard keeps a second sky in its bowls of branches, stars sifted through leaf-lace, a soft arithmetic of crickets.

I walk the rows with a pocket lamp, the light a small animal sniffing each trunk, each scar, learning the language of moss.

Somewhere a ladder sleeps in grass, its rungs smelling of rain and iron; the apples glow like held breath, green moons we forgot to name.

By the shed the wind folds itself into the sleeves of my coat. I leave with empty hands, full wrists— the weight of a map I can’t unfold.