From perfect tart pink-striped green crisp ripe
to red-orange candle-wax sweet grainy mush
in the time it takes to count one hundred yellow-boxed bushels.

Warming October windrush pushes drops
from the tops in a dither of yellow coin leaf,
soft squash plop sounding low below the rustle swish.

And all along the yellow-brown whispering orchard grass
a windfall river for scavenging mice,
bland-eyed rabbits, furrowing bowing deer.

By the fire-crackle applewood orange red flame
sitting still in the cider barrel applefull house
we hear them under the half-moon gleam, gleaning.