It's apple picking time. On a weekday morning we drive north, passing through quiet small towns. Kids are in school, and their parents at work. Ours is the only car on the road. Between the towns are woods and fields, not yet sold to a developer.
following our noses to the apple orchard– fresh cider at the mill
We take a half-bushel basket at the stand and trek up a hill picking and tasting as we go.
the bargain apples hiding on the ground under poison ivy
On top of the hill, a picnic.
after lunch, watching the yellow jackets lazy in the sun Stylus Poetry Journal, November 2002