Salt Orchard

At the edge of the city, desalination towers hum like cellos, morning lifts from the pipes in pale ribbons of brine. We plant young figs in soil taught to forget the sea, their leaves small green hands opening to a careful light.

Drones pass overhead, stitching weather into maps, while grandmothers rinse jars and name each wind by taste. On the fence, rust blooms brighter than any flower, and sparrows bathe in shadow where the tanks sweat.

By noon the sidewalks shimmer, a thin mirage of engines, children chalk blue rivers that do not yet exist. I carry water home as if carrying a sleeping animal, listening for the soft, necessary breathing inside the slosh.

At night the orchard clicks with unseen irrigation, roots learning patience in a language older than rain. Above us, satellites turn like slow silver seeds, and every window keeps a small moon in a glass.