Picnic

We sat beside the maple tree
In the warm October sun
basking in its brief blaze of glory.
The apples we bit into
were bright and crisp, like the air.
We rolled the red Italian wine around in our mouths
and let it loosen our tongues.
"It's funny," I said.
"This tree's brightest hour is just before the dark,"
and sliced another sliver of cheese.
He laughed and looked around at the scenery.
"Spring always comes again," he said.
We sat in the drowsy, sun-soaked silence
and I noticed a pair of apple trees.
They had grown up in the margins of the field
where the plow blades never reach.
They were right next to each other
so their branches only grew on one side.
They looked like a single tree
if you didn't notice their trunks.
"Look at that!", I pointed.
"How do you suppose that happened?"
One tree bore hundreds of shiny red apples
but its twin had none.
We wondered together -
was one nipped by frost while flowering
and the other escaped;
did the bees only come to visit
one side of the pair;
did they somehow commune and share responsibilities,
giving the bearing of fruit to the one most able?

As I closed my eyes that night
the afternoon's scene returned to me.
I saw again the crimson maple leaves
framed against the bright azure sky;
the flock of wild turkeys that emerged warily from the woods
to forage among the cut corn stalks
poking out of the rich brown earth;
the red-checked tablecloth we spread ourselves out on;
and the barren apple tree
next to the flourishing one.
"One was prob'ly protecting the other,"
I mumbled to myself.
"I'll bet it was doing the best it could."
But he was already asleep.