Sins against nature and man are best committed in black edge of night within half-moon light and walking distance of home

masquerading as an adventure, justifying as using what would be wasted, when all we three needed was grownup naughty child fun, we snuck across the street to the orchard

dressed in black turtleneck jerseys, knit stocking hats, each with bags for the booty, giggling like imps, hitting the ground flat like we'd seen on tv when headlights threatened to reveal our misdeed

apples dripping from branches left late in the season, destined to spoil--or for cider? but we planned for pies, applesauce, a few cobblers

with a twinge I recall them as being the best