I picked an apple from the tree, walked down the hill a little way and
stood among the pumpkins, idly turning one over with my foot now and
then. Wandering down the rows, I bit into the fruit and wiped my sticky
hands on my pants like when I was 10, studied my satisfyingly grubby
fingernails for a moment, listened to the children squealing over
finding their perfect pumpkin, and, sun on my back, gazed out over the
browning field spotted with orange and the red and gold trees topped
with blue blue sky.
