INDULGENCE Eileen Oldag
The crop made good. Apples overabundant were stored in every box and bin last of them in the barrel of old wood and cracks, unlidded by the back door. By morning the coon had helped himself beyond capacity. He lay backside down, half-buried in the cores and discards furred belly bloated upward his eyes too teary for plea or apology. Mmmm. I remembered such pure indulgence. Up the mountain ignoring the snow we’d come for as well as food or fire our intentions discarded by the bed in the pile of boots and wool the white sheets and feathered comfort an igloo against the cabin’s cold. It was a minute. It was an hourless day. You could hear the snow fall. I could see your thoughts. It was too much. It was not enough. We turned away. We turned back toward. So I turned the barrel over its unprepared slats popping in complaint. I sent the coon suffering its way back to the woods sorted out the spilled apples found a fine one still cool, its smooth skin tight and I bit.
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