Orchard After Harvest

At dusk the orchard keeps its breath, apples dim as small moons under gauze, the ladders folded like tired saints, the ground holding a red, sweet silence.

Somewhere the irrigation pipes wake, a low metallic throat clearing beneath roots. A fox crosses the rows like a thought I almost had and then lost to the trees.

I cup one fallen fruit, warm from daylight, and hear the seeds inside it clicking like tiny clocks rehearsing for a season that has not yet learned my name.

When the wind finally enters, it is gentle, turning the leaves to their silver undersides. The orchard, emptied and listening, keeps making room for what returns.