He rose before the bees,
tied his bread in cloth,
and whistled past the sleeping dog and slanting gate.
The dew clung to the nettles;
a thrush spun notes into the hedgerow,
and the apple trees bowed with such forgiveness,
you’d think the world had never tasted fire.
By noon, he had crossed the elder grove,
tucked a feather in his coat,
and followed a stream that asked nothing
but took what he brought.
No one saw the saplings he planted—
just before the frost.

In late July, a pair of boots surfaced
near the flooded wheelbarrow—
and one pear, ripened too early,
split down the middle,
with no teeth marks at all.