This is my favorite place; here, in the orchard. I stand and don’t speak. I walk and listen to the leaves crack underfoot. The afternoon sunlight comes through the yellowing canopy and makes the air golden. There are rows and rows of carefully manicured trees in every direction, perfectly spaced. They are a tribute to measurement.
I focus on my breath: slow and even. I close my eyes and try to imagine the trees in disarray, to imagine the orchard in a more natural setting. Even in my imagination I find comfort in the space between things. Even in disarray I find comfort in the patterns that emerge.
I look into the canopy above me and watch the yellow leaves fall in soft, swinging semicircles. I find a single leaf to follow downward. There are turns at unexpected moments; graceful, flexing inversions revealing the lighter colors underneath. Eventually it comes to rest on my foot, and I awake.