The equinox is for apples. First M. and walk the small ravine that cuts through our land–that is where the feral apple trees grow.

I think of them as growing from apple cores tossed from someone’s pickup window 50 years ago, but really I have no idea.

As Sally the witch says of the magicians’ orchard in Robert Graves’ Watch the North Wind Rise, these trees have been left in peace.

Only one of the feral trees has borne really well, and I will need a longer pole than my garden cultivator to knock down the high apples. “Wait until after the first frost,” M. suggests.

And then we cross the road to a neighbor’s house where two planted trees are sagging dangerously with apples. Why haven’t the bears arrived? Maybe they will tonight. We fill our bucket in just a few minutes. Apples apples applesapplesapples.