A jay settled on a branch, making it sway.
The one shrivelled fruit that remained
gave way to the deepening drift below.
I happened to see it the moment it fell.
Dusk is eager and comes early. A car
creeps over the hill. Still in the dark I try
to tell if I am numbered with the damned,
who cry, outraged, Lord, when did we see you?
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIEtz_57Y-b-WLEGd2fyGErENTV3aw5podsf8uFBSjserfLtOPRVN-7YwLeL9hEG7zfpeXzaCk2mnunsXs_s3qaMFHDweEqdOiOpJboM2TiSPxSz14iwJqxg-LIAOpBX4sTZpPIr7KKOA/s200/kenyon.jpg)
Art credit: "Apple in the Snow," photograph by Roger Lynn.
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