APPLE PIE MORNING Lisa Flowers Ross
A hint of peach tinges the sky as the sun sneaks through the dark clouds. The frosty breeze envelops my body that awakens to the season’s change. Rust, maroon, yellow, orange grasses stand tall in the morning light bending slightly to the will of the wind. Cinnamon, crisp apples, flakes of dough, a wisp of steam – the first pie of the season announces the arrival of autumn. Savoring the taste on the gray, weathered wooden boards, I listen to the leaves whisper and a chorus of birds, with nothing to do but be.
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