There must have been orchards behind our house long ago, because old, unidentifiable apple trees sprawl their crinkly, reaching limbs randomly around the back 13 acres. Kate and Clara and others enjoy the dropped apples throughout the winter. We’ve had some kind of fox or coyote leaving tracks and apple-specked droppings. Deer gather under trees and forage through the snow. As snow melts, it reveals little tunnels made by rodents, also, presumably, making meals out of fallen apples. The drops are increasingly fermented, and sometimes Clara leaps and twirls with greater abandon after she’s been fermentation feasting, drunk on drops.
Some apples, though, are still hanging on. There are these two, near the pond, that landed themselves in secure perches, propped by crooks in the branches. I walk past them daily, wondering which one will let go first, wondering if they might finally shrivel out of their snug slot, or get dislodged by an ice or snowstorm, or if they’ll hang on until new spring growth finally pushes them out of the way to make room for change. Will they fall at the same time, at last? Will one apple win? It’s a nice touch of suspense added to my daily dog walks.
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 159: 203 words, TOTAL = 25,874; 34,126 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.