A year in the grove, told in four silences

Winter is the silence of pruning. The saws stop by noon and the cut wood smells sweet. What we take from the tree this month decides its shape for a decade.

Spring is the silence of flower. For two weeks the grove hums and we stay out of its way. A hot wind now can take half the year with it, so we watch the sky more than the trees.

Summer is the silence of waiting. The fruit sets, swells, and turns. We walk the rows in the early morning, reading leaves like weather.

Autumn is the loud season, the one everyone pictures. But even harvest has its quiet: the pause at the top of the ladder, the moment before the nets are lifted, the last row finished as the light goes.