The Apple Stand

Early morning,

post-dawn mountain mist

sifted down the rock ledges

phlegmatically

and with a slowness

suggesting

saturnine lethargy.

The remaining

Smoky Mountain steep peaks

and rolling, highway-sliced

valleys

lay between

my father’s Thunderbird

and my first year

in college.

In the lap

of a hairpin bend

of two-lane asphalt

crouched

an apple and cider stand;

predatory,

and advantageous

for August travelers

in stationwagons

packed with families

homebound from Gatlinburg

and mountain-bewitched

to repletion.

It caught my eye,

this shadowed stand,

and we stopped.

The apples were arranged

in appealing

red and green baskets;

burnished, ripe,

and fragrant;

glittering

in the soft sunlight that fell

in grated wedges

through the leaves.

But what arrested me

more fervidly

was their vendor.

Behind the neat,

russet rows,

he sat silently;

languid eyes

that were woodbrown

and open,…

a smile

that only revealed

half a soul,

like a window

partially drawn wide,…

hair that draped

in a silken frame

around his lean

face…

I felt myself

move closer,

beckoned by

something in the hush

of nearby mountain springs,

the scent of apples,

and the apparent

strength of his hands.

I asked faintly

for a basket

of apples,

handed him a dollar,

and watched

as he wordlessly

and unceremoniously

emptied them

into a brown

paper sack.

“The basket’s not included.”

he said.

Those eyes withdrew

and I clutched the sack

as I crept back

to the car.

Isn’t it just like a man

to empty a basket

of apples

into a sack?

We drove on in silence.