Orchards by Eppie Zore’a

Disappointed, I return to the country I was born in to live in a house surrounded by tangerine trees. The house is on a hill ringed by terraces and chicken houses, and underneath them heaps of chicken dung emit hot, redolent vapors.  Further down there are mustard flowers and a failed reservoir. This is the village you have never yet left; these are the terraces you and your friends jumped, riding bareback with your mares when you were twelve. This is where you passed your childhood in such friendship with the animals and their personalities were much more interesting to you than those of the adults. But none of this explains why I see such a glow around your face when you first come to my door. We are introduced.