Wild Apples

Eased the blue cruiser onto a sun-bleached dirt turnout where an old stone foundation marks what used to be a foothill homestead. Right beside the crumbling masonry stood a gnarled apple tree, branches dipping low under a crop of small golden-yellow apples. I kicked the stand down into the dry grass, walked over, and twisted a firm one off the wood. Wiped the dust off the skin against my jeans and carved off a clean wedge with my pocket knife. Crisp, sharp, and cold enough to wake up your teeth. Leaned against the warm saddle, chewing slow while the twin cylinders ticked down in the quiet breeze. Good trail fuel for the run south.