
They were chopping plum trees down in an orchard by the river, all in full blossom. Disease perhaps, but the sight was shocking. Veiled in white, old trees falling, the orange wound of the stumps harsh against the black bark. Can such beauty be sick? In the distance, towards the flat silver band of the river, a tractor churned the brown earth. The sky was blue except for the dark circling of kites. Silent as death.
Spring unfurls green
winter white a memory
wind-tossed petals.