The crabapple tree burst this year with so much round ruby fruit that its branches sagged low enough from the weight I had to duck under every time I went out to the shed or to empty the compost bucket, so low that the branches interfered with our clothesline, and now the ornery tree is getting extra laughs by making a concerted effort to toss a berry or two or three on my head when I walk underneath, and to drop fruit on the ground in a pattern that ensures I will either squash the apples underneath my feet with a sound like stepping on giant bugs, or I slip on them like a spread of marbles in a cartoon and fling my arms out to maintain balance, and already I’ve raked and shoveled and filled and emptied my wheelbarrow three times and still a zillion crabapples hang in the tree and autumn is my favorite season.
