Up over the hill the rambling wild old apple tree is not quite over the hill. Her tenacious fruit are hanging on for dear life bolstered by the balmy early November temperatures - a veritable Indian summer, a gift from the speckled blue skies. They are clustered on the top half of the tree, safe from marauding deer and the clutch of humans like us, ravenously stripping the lower half of her ample flesh, transforming it by means of our hand-cranked apple press into rich juice of a complex sweet tang that modern-day apple strains cannot match. The pink-blushed fruit that remain will ultimately succumb to gravity and the waning juice of life, tumbling down with the breeze and rotting into a mush where they fall. They will have had a good long life left to their own devices in nature; that’s the most any being can hope for.