The apples that have traveled further in two weeks than I have in two months tell me stories: how the pollen-dusted bees tumbled in their flowers, how the growers counted out their pennies to pay for the right to grow them—apples piled into great wooden boxes where they slept, strapped to a truck bed, snug over macadam, dreaming of earthworms fat and red as bud-break on the currant.
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