by James Urbaniak

Created on: September 04, 2009

The apples hung beneath me,
From the gnarled arms and fingers
Of a long neglected
Tree.

Sitting in the top loft
Of an old run down
And slightly sagging barn
On a long abandoned farm

My brother and I, legs dangling into space,
Would take turns with the BB gun,
Shooting apples down, as we fired
From that place.

Often, with our targets selected,
I would have time to contemplate
All the events having occurred in this
Orchard, which had led to its ignoble fate.

My brother would take his time
Selecting just the perfect apple,
The perfect place to shoot
And I, I would just sit and wait.

And when it came my turn
To fire, I too would look
For just the right fruit,
Just challenging enough to fill my desire

As a fitting competition to my
Brother's shot and sometimes would
Imagine taking over that apple orchard,
My own home grown apples, sitting on that spot.

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