Mary F. C. Pratt's poem watches an apple harvest at the moment when ripeness tips into decay. The first stanza races through an apple's life, from crisp, tart and pink-striped to sweet, grainy mush, in the time it takes to count a hundred bushels. Nothing stays perfect for long.
The second and third stanzas move outdoors. An October wind shakes apples loose, and they land with a soft "plop" among yellow leaves. The fallen fruit becomes "a windfall river" for mice, rabbits and deer, who come to feed in the grass.
In the last stanza the speaker is inside, by a fire of applewood, in a house full of cider and apples. From there, the speaker and others listen to the animals outside, "gleaning" under the half-moon.
The mood is warm, sensory and quietly content. The speaker doesn't seem troubled by the rot or the loss. Sound, taste and color are packed together, and the poem suggests a shared, unhurried abundance in which people and animals both take their share.