The aged apple tree is barren as days become colder.
The sweet aroma of cider, from remaining windfall fruit, floats on a chilly breeze that ruffles through brittle leaves still clinging to gnarled branches.
I have gleaned all I can, leaving behind a harvest feast for deer who visit nightly.

Candace Kubinec posts her stories at storydribbles.wordpress.com and her poetry at rhymeswithbug.com.