The old tree is full of ripe green apples. Fall has arrived and early rain pelts the roof top of our turn-of-the-century house. Inside, we are warm and secure. It’s mid-September. Harvest time. Time to gather our rain gear and frisk the garden for vegetables and fruit.

Early on this windy morning, we lay out our plan of attack, only to discover that Ms. sow bear has already helped herself to the ripest apples. The ground is littered with branches and she has climbed high into the tree and shaken lose the bright round treasures.

This is not a problem. It is an annoyance. Reflecting over early morning coffee and Laurie’s proper cup of English tea, we decide to let it be. More than enough to go around. More than enough for a couple of apple pies by master baker, my wife and partner of 40 years. More than enough for the family of deer that arrive regularly at our house and at China Beach, our small Bed & Breakfast. Laurie feeds them from her hand.

We carry the step ladder from the garage, this structure brimming with 20 years of “we gotta save it” and pull a bushel-full of the apples from the bruised tree. Now the fun begins.

The kitchen is a happy place. Let the rains fall and the winds blow. Our house is a very, very fine house, with two cats (one actually, and she is a house cat) in the yard.

Laurie insists on very thin slices and an abundant filling. One can imagine the smell of apples and cinnamon wafting from the oven, and of course, the first bite, “so sweet, and so good.” And this is what we have to share in the topsy-turvy days of Autumn.

And many thanks to Crosby, Stills and Nash and William Carlos Williams for illuminating our imaginations, for the soft-spoken word. Pie and poetry, a match for the ages.

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