Two weeks ago, when autumn was busily stripping the apple tree at the foot of our drive of its leaves, it also began subtly robbing the apples of their ruddy hues, but it wasn’t until this past Friday, as I stepped carefully around the tree, avoiding bare, crooked limbs straight from The Wizard of Oz, that I realized I’d never seen an apple fall.
Then it happened. A slight movement, just in time to watch the apple fall perhaps six inches into the clutches of (bony fingers!) small branches. It didn’t bounce; the branch didn’t shake; even a Russian judge would have awarded a 10 for their routine.
The next morning was foggy and 30°, the light virtually shadowless—would the apple still be there? Would I get the photograph I wanted?
I beat a bird to it by mere hours.