Fall was upon the earth, a change that could not be stopped, could not be reversed. It was in a way death, slow and silent. Only the breath of the wind between dry leaves spoke of the winter that was to come. They rattled lightly in her ears, reminding her of the time that was running out. Not yet She begged, and yet a determination was held beside the plea. The chill brought a hardening stone inside, preparing her for what she could not predict. Winter was not far, and yet she wished to enjoy the bounty that would be the earth’s last until the new live spring would bring. Haven’s patch was blooming with color, even with the onset of death. The fruit of her labor seasons past were brought forth in the bloom and sprout of the pumpkins that she had planted. The rows were neat, a mirror of the garden that had so recently been put to rest. Leaving them on the vine for so long let them flourish and grow to the large round fruit that Anu had hoped. The best, most perfect had been severed and moved to the side. Ready for the celebration that she prepared for.
But it was not bent over the pumpkin plants that was the pose Anu held. Instead she had moved to the heavy branches of the fruit trees that lined one side of the patch. A bucket, an old crate were all they had. A ladder had been in her shed at one time, but Anu could not find it and was sure it had rotted and would not have been sturdy. Instead she stood beneath the tree, picking from the bottom up. The trees had been poorly pruned, yielding small apples among a rare large fruit. Each one she found she felt and examined it, blue eyes looking for bruises and imperfections. When she found that it had none, she placed it in the basket while the rest were tossed into the crate. What she would do with them she did not know, but it felt natural for her to rid the trees of their weight.
It left her with small moments of thought, as she examined each with a wasted effort. Still Anu was happy to expel it, whiling to forget the things that brought her unease. Every aspect of her life was a rise and fall of her emotional tide, her position in the pack, every aspect of her heart. Few things were stable and at times she felt as if she walked on something far from solid ground. The cut below her eye was testimony to the sporadic tempest that her life had become. Such experiences were littered among the moments such as this. Calm, quiet and simple. Light hued fingers trailed the healing cut and bruise that lay beneath her sandy silver fur. A reminder of her foolishness, a reminder of the power the emotions of love and hate played within one’s soul. The Dreamer returned to the apple tree, reminders forgotten and eyes seeking perfection.
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