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It is not the hottest day yet, but its damn near close. Heavy September air wafts through the orchard, distorting the horizon. Mounds of congealed Granny Smiths pile beneath wilting leaves, sending a pungent odor of decay down the rows. An odor which peals back my curtains and wafts through my open window. That slithers past my lips and breaches my naval cavity. I stagger to my feet blinded by the sun’s sharp reflection in my standup mirror. In that same reflection I can see for miles and miles. Rows and rows of death. Of rotting fruit. The quivering sky undulated by the pressure of the day’s heat. And off in the distance, that damn dog barks for a drop of rain.

The fruit stand would be another bust today. Without checking I know there’s not a salvageable apple out in those rows. And the Sun is my only neighbor inclined to visit. Not even the crows will carry off the refuse. I’ve let this go on too long. The piles are so large they could constitute an entire apple acropolis. I would not be surprised if a mega-fruit monolith was built by noon, made up of layers and layers of unsalvageable product. I feel inclined to clean up the rows. To rid the aisles. To banish the wasps and worms back into the fields. Yet, I am compelled, more defiantly, to remain here. I cannot cure my orchard’s continual impotence. I was taught to feel the earth each morning. To grasp a fistful of soil and smell. To guess its fertility. To plant accordingly. The Sun will not stop bruising these fruits. And, after all, I cannot make it rain.

            By the time night falls, it is cool enough to sleep. I spread my body entirely, completely covering the mattress, with no sheets. But a cool breeze rushes through a crack in my door. The sweet supplications of fresh moonbeams prance across my skin. The lonely shudders of my cabin moan with the perfect crispness of night.

Yet, as the hours pass, I cannot rest. I cannot withstand this chill. I scream and run to that dizzy horizon, craving the Sun and its burning embrace. I run through fields of moonlit apples, squelching and oozing beneath my toes. Somewhere in the distance that dog is asleep, lulled by the night’s reprieve. But I scream for the Sun. For another sweltering morning. Where I can sweat- alone. At least, maybe then, I can think about planting oranges. They’re a winter fruit- but they do thrive in heat.