A Sentence on Walnut Picking

A family works together in the fading light of an evening in late October, kneeling on the grass beside empty buckets, picking at the soil, unearthing the mottled green-black walnuts that litter the ground by dozens, breathing in their spicy-lemon tang, lugging full buckets to the rickety wooden trailer, eyes combing the ground to spy out the hideaways that are camouflaged both by blackness and greenness, but that squish unmistakably, like overripe apples, between tannin stained toes.