There were problems to be solved then,decisions to be made. Now we walk and walk
through the orchards, the Cannery Orchard,the Nursery Orchard, the Black Cherry Orchard.
We walk to the river, the far boundary,high and wide, deep and brown, a ganglia
of branches tumbling, shooting down the rapids,then caught by the branch of a downed tree. There’s
a man sitting on a bench aiming a long lens,an old couple walking who stop to pet
our young dog. The Nursery Orchard makes methink of how the decisions quieted, moved on,
how long ago I’d take those tests in secret,and, never the right color, I thought it was him.
Later I found out it was both of us, and, oddly,that made it better, our decision made. The young
trees in this…
