Lake Lewisia #1227

The apple had, over the winter, wrinkled and shrunk, dried halfway to leather in some root cellar, and the little creature bit into it with relish all the same. It had found the offering laid out on a few flat stones by the roots of the backyard apricot tree, which was beginning to bud, pink and plump. “The last of the harvest and the first promise of the next,” it thought to itself, “and here’s me, no farmer’s brownie, but I suppose we all do what we can with what’s lying about.”

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LL#1227