"Ladder"

Chunks of earth let go of their grasp as he lifts his right steel-toed boot towards the first rung of the ladder. It creaks underneath his weight like the moans of an older man getting up off the floor, but it stands, resolute and unmoving, like a soldier at boot camp in front of his TO. His feet shuffle slightly on each step, always the right foot first because of the nagging twinge in his left hip. His head now buried in the leaves of the orchard, smelling bright, new, and floral as the blossoms fall like small snowflakes in the wind. Riding the wind like a cowboy wrestling a bull, in wafts a whiff of Mrs. P’s bonfire as she is buckleing down for the evening. Peter, feeling a twinkle of hope tickle his stomach, turns his caramel colored eyes towards the first fruit - a round, firm, and sure to be sweet and crisp apple. Peter pauses in wonder, as everyone does when at peace with nature, feeling his large, rough and heavily tanned hands grip the even rougher slats of the ladder, feeling the last salute of the sun pull its warmth…