There was the creek, endlessly clattering, and the main room of the cabin, smelling, no matter how much it was aired out, of beeswax and old paper. There was the smell of the shed, of damp wood and sun. The smell of earth and grass, the leagues of forest, after a rain. The smell of cornbread in the oven. The crows in the yard, the glossy midnight of their backs. The interminable chores, both large and small, that constantly, rightly, occupied her. The bright and silent stars at night, so close you felt you could walk into them. The cacophony of birds at dawn.
-Amanda Coplin, The Orchardist


















