Hop.

I like your happiness, with a hop. You waiting for the car slowly twisting around the church, past the lake I just photographed. Starting to walk across the farm, by the fresh spinach rows, you know where the apples are… You like to fetch sticks in between. You help guide all the guests to the entrance, running towards afternoon sun on tan grass. A shadow dog is trying to play, chasing you under your paws, fast. I finish to core my second sixth apple, walk to the nearest stick and throw. You hop back to me, so proud. Ay, those eyes. Then apple fields call to you now.

Hop trots back to the road leading back to the tree line, south of the sign. A stick he pushes with his nose, between the lanes, eating the apples that are left behind.