It seems someone else was interested in order, too—
The squat trees edging away down the slope
In wavy lines like rivulets—but wasn’t very good at it.
And left you to make the best of the result. 
But you can’t very well tear up Uncle Jack’s half-acre
On a whim, and besides, the view isn’t unattractive,
Just arbitrary.

So you are sleepy and looking through branches at the sky
When a few birds fly in from the next field
And start singing a sad old song you have heard before,
Like the woman’s voice out of a second story window
Singing, “Am I Blue?” Things are no better off next door.
The sun is setting now behind a hill, and if you could squint
Enough, maybe it would look, red and round,
Like another apple.