At the Edge of the Orchard Wind

The wind came in carrying apple skin and rain, a silver hush dragged low across the rows, where ladders leaned like forgotten prayers and bruised fruit glowed in the grass like small moons.

I walked between trunks furred with old light, my hands full of nothing but the scent of leaves; somewhere a crow stitched one black note to dusk, and the fields answered in slow, green breath.

Beyond the fence, the river kept its iron song, turning stones as if turning pages no one owned. I thought of all that ripens by being left alone: wood darkening, silence deepening, a name worn smooth in the mouth of weather.

When night arrived, it did not close the world. It opened it farther, until every branch was a vein of ink, and the stars were seeds thrown wide over the sleeping earth.