Apple drop

The apple tree is overloaded, the branches so heavily laden with fruit that their tips bow to the ground, making a secret, shadowy green house. Lying beneath this leafy tent is like being inside an emerald. A few glitters of sunlight sparkle between the edges of the leaves, but mostly it’s all warm, verdant shade and the smell of grass. Under my back, way, way down, I can sense the spinning of the earth as it whirls along its track, circling the sun, which is hurtling through the galaxy, which careens through the universe at unimaginable speeds. And meanwhile, back at the tree, two apples are growing on one twig. Slowly, gradually, one forces the other off, and the stillness of the afternoon is nudged, briefly, by a muffled thunk.

Next week, the ground will be cobbled with fallen apples and the air will be a hubbub of drunken yellow jackets, feasting on the fermenting fruit. I have to
relish the apple tree shade while I can; while it’s still quiet enough to feel the earth spin.

This apple drop is a source of great consternation to the cats. They see movement much better in the horizontal plane, much less in the vertical. So, when an apple drops, the cats don’t see the fall. All they see is a sudden
movement in the grass. When they creep out to investigate, all they find is an apple. Then something hits the ground beside them. Have you even seen three cats spring simultaneously into the air and land crouching and facing in three different directions? What was that!?! Much tail switching and glaring about. There’s nothing here but another apple. The wind shakes the branches, and a barrage of apples hails down. Head for the hills, guys! There’s safety in the yew bushes under the fir tree.

For at least an hour, every gust of wind and tumble of apples produces a blossoming of suspicious furry faces in the yew bushes. And into the night, the nocturnal thud and rumble of apples on the roof troubles their fuzzy dreams. One kneads his paws and makes sucking noises like a kitten. One growls faintly in his sleep. And one twitches and purrs. Is he catching mice? Climbing trees? Dancing a tango with Carmen Miranda? Who knows? He’ll never tell. Cats never do.

Sharing the bed with three pushy pussycats is a restive thing at best, but I’m used to it, and pull sleep over my head like a fluffy grey blanket. As I drift toward unconsciousness, I wonder, - - do I hear reindeer on the roof? The grumble of distant thunder? Or is this the sound of the earth turning through the universe?