Here’s the orchard someone else will tend to.And the crawl space beneath the porchof the house where someone else’s barn catwill slumber through the summer nightsdreaming of long-tailed mice in the high grass.Over that field, the light dips and refractsthrough the broken glass of the muck pondwhere a catfish will take someone else’s baitand hook—that it might meet the refinedheat of a skillet. The ghosts of a thousandhead of cattle walk through the woods at nightin someone else’s dream while the windows,cracked slightly, let a mild breeze passthrough the empty rooms like an appraiser.There is no death that cannot be undoneby simply turning the compost with a pitchforkor by scattering scratch in the dirt for chickenswho sing each time they lay, but every repairis only a gesture against the torment of slowwinds and steady rain and heavy sun. It will besomeone else who grows too old to climbthe ladder into the barn’s cool loft or the flightof stairs that lead to and from their own bed.It will be their hand weighing the mortgage.It will be their face forgetting its smile. Listen,if the well pump kicks to life at dawn, it will besomeone else drawing a bath for the last time—joints relaxing as their form submerges, bodyrecovering and failing in the same held breath.