theory of gravity

I was out in the garden at dusk, all was quiet, and it fell on my head. But it was as though it was thrown in defiance rather than the Isaac Newton gravity theory thingy. And to have been carefully eaten slowly over time as though searching for a hidden treasure inside instead of grasping its axis and penetrating the membrane with hungry sharp incisors.

I do not know. It is the core of the problem. It’s why I invited you. I know what we discuss will not leave this room, my comrade. Sit down, sip your coffee, it is hot. No, I insist, my favorite chair, Dear Friend, scoot dog.

Funny, just then when you softly blew across the surface the misty steam twisting up and floating away from your cup appeared like a laughing ghost face. No, I only mention it because strange things have been happening, Tatyana’s portrait smiling, strange howling from Willow Manor at midnight, the dog burrowing into my bed. Just this:

This apple. Eight days now, no browning around the edges. Still firm, juicy, unbruised, God’s perfume. The uneven divot, perhaps dug with a small spoon, or more probable and my theory, the beaky surgical skill of the inscrutable Magpie. Yes, I have seen them. Yes, blue glossy wings, tail feather a mile long, yes. No, they are not in this part of the country but they appear often in my garden. But you roll your eyes. I understand. The apples on the ground? They bump against apples and roll them into neat piles methodically. If only they’d do the fallen leaves now. It’s as though they are doing it just for my benefit. Like Boo Radley, yes, a mystery. They do not eat fruit.

Magpies are not stupid like Cardinals which bang into the windows chasing their own reflection. They are a fairly vain creature. But why did it drop on me with such force? There was not a sole around. I did an immediate search. What’s that? Yes, I have a sharp knife. Shall we dissect the apple then and solve my theory? Ok. No, sit back, relax. No ghost. That thud you hear upstairs is the stupid Cardinal against the window.