Ripe for the picking
HIGH in an apple tree, orbs of fruit hanging around my head; a private constellation of red planets. Where the sun touches through the leaves, the apples become enringed with gold-shine.
September sunlight is hazy and imprecise and cannot be mistaken for the sunlight of any other month. The day did not begin like this. In the early morning, there was the sort of mist that is actually fog and it had a choke-hold on the valley. I could barely breathe and, when I was at the top of the ladder picking the apples—Worcester Pearmain, a Victorian breed—my head was in a blind bag.
Fortunately, the sun
