This morning you look at your whole crop of kids, laughing and chattering, eating apple pie for breakfast. 

The apple pie comes from the bushel your dad gave you last weekend, when you met him for camping in the autumn mountains and he brought you apples from his trees and jam your mother bottled from his vines.

Your wife made the apple pie.  Thick crust, cool juicy solid filling.

The kids have heaped on their pie slices yogurt that your wife also made.

You remember vividly the drive back from the mountains, bright yellow acres of low-lying damianitas in the semi-arid landscape, the distant white clouds, the odor of ripe apples, you and your kids singing extremely silly songs y’all made up, singing at the top of your lungs.

You realize that you have every reason to be happy.

Fall-yellow wild fields.

Harvest apples scent the car.

High cloud  horizon.