The bowl is windfall, and the number is twelve

Lena's east trees are the ones from March. They drop fruit that is more honest than it is sweet. I put the drops in the bowl on the long table and I wrote the count of the short stakes so she would not have to spend Sunday on a crime.

The count held. Twelve. Bas took the cores to the scrap bed. Hugo ate one and reported the flavour as if we were a journal of record. We are, a little. The flavour was sharp. The bowl is now four, and I am not walking back out there to make it look abundant.

If you are Floor, or Nora, or anyone whose first evening is still a first evening: the bowl is the invitation. The row with the short stakes is not. They look similar if you are being generous with yourself. Do not be generous with yourself.

I will refill on Wednesday if the trees have anything left to say. If they do not, the bowl stays empty and the table survives. We have bread for hunger. The apples are for the fact of the trees.