Somewhere under the orchard ice, the last seeds of the valley are still deciding whether the world is worth returning to. You walk the rows with a coal of old summer in your glove, waking water out of the frozen dark one touch at a time. A seed must drink its exact measure — a drop short and it turns back into its sleep, a drop over and the black melt closes above it. The Night refreezes whatever lingers; only what keeps moving stays water, and only what is measured becomes spring.