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.
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.