Dusk.

Dusk Right before darkness slips on the field, I walk the fence line, split apples in hand, clicking my tongue a familiar sound the horses recognize. The heads move higher, deliberate steps thud earth close to the wire, their nostrils quiver over the scent of Empire apples, still ready to bolt at indiscretion, despite the offer. The setting sun sends a stream of light, red as apple skins circling white flesh, dark seeds couched in tough shell casings snap between the horses' flat teeth, the long concave faces scoop the light. [ABSTRACT FROM AUTHOR]