BY HARRY WAITZMAN
Behind the road stand selling apples and corn,
a crow with its beak slits the skin
of a bruised Winesap and lurches into the fruit
gulping soft pulp.
On the dirt floor of the cider mill mice
sample culls piled in a heap for pressing
when the stand closes.
The new coke machine vibrating next to the phone,
changes my dollar bill into coins, flashing hellos
when I press my choice.
Soon the orchard is sponged with dew
and its stone fence barely holds back developers.
I walk the shoulder of this road fanned by cars