The grass lay extending from horizon to horizon, but mostly hidden, because pillar trees with round tops were one large mob, standing everywhere the grass was. With so many trees it wasn’t a field, yet it almost was, something supernatural because grass grew thick and encompassing, covering every inch of ground around and close, snug around the bases of the trunks of the trees.
From the trees floated down leaves, in no hurry, tracing valleys. They were not too many not too dense but everywhere, falling everywhere. They landed flat on the grass, becoming the tops of the base of the greatest house of cards never built. The grass welcomed the weight, relaxing stiff tips, until in splendid introduction they slid down like sliding glass doors and brought the leaves to the earth.
Ground of leaves, an apple fell and the apples were falling. They landed too hard, pounding, crashing. They dented the earth itself; the grass had receded too far, leaving behind jets of empty space that gave way. The earth was failing, some apples breaking in and then straight through to the other side, to empty space, erupting among clouds of dust, emerging underneath as shooting stars. Above the limbs of the trees failed under their weight, thunderous as they snapped off, falling and never landing and taking whole swathes of the ground with them. The trees were last to lose hold, jarred to slants or falling altogether, their tops tumbling through the earth one way as their roots ripped through the other.