The Orchard

THE ORCHARD Heavy fruits hang low from the moss-laden branches. Legs bare to the breeze, leaves dense underfoot carpet the black earth. Scent of ripening skin and the moist, sweet plums. Fermenting purple wine, rich on the tongue. Spiders scuttle past my naked feet. I want to lie on the soil, roll the scents of the orchard deep into my flesh, sleep with the cloud flash burning on my eyes. Waking with the dew like diamond drops hanging from my skin. Alone here amongst the trees I hear the blackbird perch, begin its benediction to the day. High in the branches, far from human reach, I am listening now for the garden's quiet and calming breath and the soft hum of the bees. ARINA FISH