ladies and lads of the land
covered in grime from spending the day in the orchard, here we come, sinking our teeth into the skins of apples picked moments ago. tripping over uneven ground, as drunk as the bees off the sweet smell of rotted apples, collecting under trees. my sister is in wonderful humor, besides being stung by the bee whom she tried to steal an apple from...we drove through miles and miles of cornfields, perfection nestled between the slow mountains of southern illinois. we perch amidst the pumpkin patches, swallowing 25 cent glasses of cider, to coat our dusty throats. later, we stop on the edge of the mississippi river. in search of a bite to eat, we walk through a bar full of motorcycle riders, who talk and buzz as loud and shiny as their bikes parked outside. we take two ferries home, and when i ask the reason so many things are named after eagles around here, the man who collects money on the ferry, jingling and jangling with each step, tells me that the golden eagles winter here. i really must come back later in the fall sometime, when the leaves have all changed. apples for days. apple pies, apple pancakes, applesauce, apple fritters...we wonder jokingly, if they'll ever run out. on the way home, my voice betrays me, quivering, telling only of vulnerability that i'd rather not reveal.
taken from the ferry