He remembered his past. All the way back to when he was a kid in Arkansas picking plums during the midnight hours. Looking for the perfect one.
The moon was high and full, shining down on wet grass that yellowed in the coolness of the Fall. This was the last of summer’s harvest. Soon the trees would be bare. Plums, pears, and apples would fall to the ground. Birds peck at rotten fruit.
As he picked in the orchard, shadows would follow. Winds would blow. And, coyotes would howl. Old spirits that never left. Words could be heard. Ghosts telling stories of better times. Before blood was tilled into the ground. Battles fought and lost on this land. On this land.
If he could speak to the ghosts one more time. Go back to his childhood. Back when magic occurred. Now days there were no spirits. The orchards have been replaced by golf courses, condos, resort packages. How he wished to live in the past. Autumn’s crisp days are now Indian summers. And the days move fast. Magic no longer. The fruit is not as sweet.