From the Archives: Through the Orchard

A broad, flat lawn stretches in front of you, a swath of deepest emerald under luminous blue, empty in the twilight except for a table alone in the center, a single candelabra casting a pale amber circle on its surface. You cross to the table, lift the candelabra and carry it with you as you continue over the lawn and pass into an orchard. On the border of the orchard you feel the edges of the grass, cool on the lawn, now dry and warm. The air is coated with the scent of fruit and lies heavy between the trees, silvering the bark and graying the leaves. As if the candle flames had flown and multiplied, fireflies flicker above your head. Thick and random they glint in the twists of branches and the spaces between the trees.

But as you pass deeper in the orchard, the trees grow denser, older, and the number of fireflies gradually dwindles. The trees close in together and the branches above your head change from sinuous, cultivated curves bearing leaves and fruit to straight, stiff branches of wild hardwoods. Beneath your feet the grass has given way to a packed forest floor scattered with leaves. The fireflies are gone, but the flame points of the candle burn brighter now, illuminating the indigo spaces between the trees.