The fallen apples

Right now, in the garden, there are so many apples on the ground that it smells like apple cider, rotting fallen apples, so many I no longer pick them up, I kick them into the hostas, the hydrangeas, the beds of flowers, these fallen apples that fill the air with their smell, their perfume, these green and red apples visited by wasps, half eaten by squirrels, a ground hog passing through the garden, and the sound of heat bugs on a hot August day with their loud call from wherever they may be.