For one moment, the afternoon air suspends me 50 feet above the earth. For one moment, I am free. An apple branch absorbs the shock of my landing. I dip my brush into the basket at my hip and pull out the black bristles, now dusted in yellow pollen. They say that bees were black and yellow, so I guess the colours are fitting. I dab a white flower, dust some yellow on the stigmas, and move on - blossom to blossom, branch to branch. The fruit trees grow tall here in Washington. The skinnies used to stunt them for easy picking, but after waking us, they tweaked the trees to utilize vertical space.
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