The scents of Autum have vanished. The snows have come, though—as before—the air is acrid and crisp with the layered scents of smoke: different smokes from a multitude of chimneys. They all speak of warmth, however, of comfortable seats in front of fireplaces. They announce the presence of what restaurants remain open, of what houses remain closed to all but those who live in them. There are still apples, too few for picking, and because the frosts have come, because they have frozen, their tissues will surely soften to mush and rot when temperatures rise enough to melt the ice that they have become. Of course, there is no tragedy in this; they are fertilizer for next year's growth, sweet food for next year's worms, fungi and flies. The apples that I'd picked with a friend have been peeled and boiled...boiled and simmered with sugar and spices as brown as mahogany. They have been rendered into a thick, dark cousin to applesauce and eaten as a spread on fresh bread, its outer skin, dusted with flour. Next year, there will be hard and gnarled apples; some more sour than others. They will rot and mottle; they will fall. Someone may render them into applesauce. Or not. But at any rate, there will be apples, as there have always been since their trees were first planted for a long-vanished king. **** I'd intended to post this image a bit earlier, but I got sidetracked. As always, thank you for you for viewing and reading and commenting on my past works as well as this one, and hopefully everyone is having a great week on its slow build-up to Thanksgiving for those who celebrate it.