Zharkur

He rises early on most days, cresting the hill of his grove before the sun does. Trying his hair back from his face with a bandana, he sets to work.

It’s no easy feat to manage his groves by himself. He examines each tree, hands trailing over bark and rubbing leaves, watchful for signs of rot or infestation. He probes the soil beneath, drawing water when it goes dry, spreading thick stinking fertilizer at the roots. He tracks the progress of the fruit, bud to blossom to small round swells of green.

The work is difficult, but he takes pride in that, and most of all in the final product - sweet fruit bursting with juice, a flawless sunset-orange peel, the sharp scent of citrus on the air.