Apricots

Alan hands out apricots from a sticky plastic bag. We jaw them for a while, pulling sour faces in the fire light. When we have scoured all flesh from the stones, we spit them into our hands and, as one, hoist the cold hearts over our shoulders. They patter in the dark thicket. Wiping our chins, we share grins at the thought that twenty years on a non-plussed explorer will find five exotic twisted trees among the beech and ash.