A lonely young woman walked in her walled pear orchard, its eternal prisoner. There may have been a time when she loved her golden pears, their rounded shapes, sweet nectar and soft flesh, but she never thought of those days. Since she could remember, they were iron weights hanging from dark branches like chains. Her pale figure was a ghost flitting through the amber and sometimes earthen pointillist bejewelling of the secret, lonesome garden. There were days of sun and days of rain, but there were no days without the hesperian fruits lusciously dangling in the sparkling twilight. There had been someone else once, long ago perhaps, long before the migraines and silence, but now it was sheer pain to feel or think, for the golden pears crowded out all thoughts. Once, while walking along a path through the dark trunks and bright fruits, she stopped by a stream to watch birds drink and bathe. Thoughts are birds or trees, she reasoned, and sometimes stonesthrough which the waters sough. They run off in streams. Maybe thoughts are water.