Orchard Yesterday they cut all the apple trees down, for their own survival. And what animal doesn't defend its territory? You see, the bears inhabited their yard, a sit-in until the fat, sweet globes of apples ripen on the ancient, twisted trees. They stalked the orchard at dawn and once the husband was gone, peered in the windows at mother and baby. So, the orchard is now a field, in the shadows of a lone plum, and a solitary pear. But there is only so much one can let go of. He unwilling to part with the pear's perfect female form, and she would not forgo the succulence of plums. What are you willing to let go of? What beautiful objects will you cast off in this advancing autumn? Will the ghosts of the ungrown apples inhabit the ripening fruit? A hint of tart in the pear, a crunch in the plum. Even sweeter in the apples' absence, they will ripen into the eager hands of humans, while rooted trunks watch on, abandoned. The bears will groan at the harvest moon, whose light shines a clear path through the meadow in this naked night. The spirits breeze through with the apples' ripe aroma and the last bear lingers, her nose up snorting at the musky fragrance in the near-empty orchard at dawn.