Apple Juice
In August, there are rare days when the fog rolls away and Mount Tamalpais is left bare. We admire her verdant silhouette, her cascade of green hair, her long fingers. While her redwoods and bays bask in the sun, we rest in her shadow and pick apples from your family’s old trees. You scale each tree with confidence and I stand below, struck by your youth, your sharp shoulders and the slope of your collarbones. I catch the apples you toss down, collecting enough to fill your mother’s basket. We make juice while the sun finally sets on a long summer day, the soft light falls behind the mountain.
Tamalpais wraps herself in the blanket of fog, and we sip sweet, fresh apple juice.
Sofia Luna