Orchard of the Long Breath

Silvered limbs of the apple trees stretch toward a sky of brushed wool. The ground is a carpet of copper scales, bruised and fermenting in the damp.

The wind carries a scent of iron, a sharp reminder of the coming frost. Not a bird breaks the stillness, only the slow, rhythmic drip of mist.

Under the roots, the earth prepares to hold its breath for the long dark. Sap retreats like a fading song, sinking deep into the cold, silent loam.