The old apple tree groaned as Clifford leaned against it.
“You sound about as bad as I feel,” he said to the tree.
George chuffed and pawed at the ground.
“Ain’t nobody talkin’ to you, you ol’ mule,” Clifford croaked to the animal still standing upright in the midday sun at the edge of the hay field.
“Why don’t you come up under here in the shade, take a rest?”
George took a bite of hay, chewed it a few times, threw his head to toward the west, away from Clifford and into the sun.
“Well, you never did have no sense,” Clifford said. “I think you’re still afraid an apple will fall on your head, aren’t you?”
Clifford heaved his chest a few times, breath wheezing. He rubbed a gritty forearm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat.
“This tree ain’t born no fruit in at least twenty years, you fool!”
George craned his neck to look at Clifford, then let out a bellow.
“You go on back to work if you want to, beast,” Clifford said. “I’m too old for this heat.”
George shook his head and kicked his back legs, sending a clop of dirt flying. It plopped against something hard on the other side of the tree.
Clifford frowned and stepped into the sunshine, looking for the dirt the mule had flung.
He found it, alright — it had slammed against Pete Foster’s headstone.
Clifford had forgotten all about the little Foster cemetery there on the backside of the tree.
Pete had decided to give up farming when he was sixty. Sold the land to Clifford. Died the next week.
Clifford nodded.
“Welp,” he said, picking up the scythe. “We better get back to work, you ol’ paint, before Pete comes lookin’ for a buddy.”