A gust of the brisk autumn wind rattled the panes of the kitchen window. The heavy thud of footsteps on the wooden planks of the porch grew louder as they approached the house. The back door, with an added push from the wind, opened with a force that banged the door against the wall. The husband entered in, his arms laden with a stack of wood. He strode to the wood box and leaned over to dump the wood into it. He straightened up and walked back to close the door, his footsteps crunching into pieces a scattering of brittle leaves the wind had blown in. Grabbing the broom and dustpan from the closet, he swept up the remnants of the leaves. After discarding them into the trash bin and placing the broom and dustpan back into the closet, he walked over to stand next to his wife, who was washing her hands at the kitchen sink.
"What is smelling so good in here, my lady?" he asked. The wife shut off the faucet and dried her hands with the corner of her apron. She smiled, reached up and gave the husband a kiss on his cheek. "I picked a few apples off the tree, peeled and sliced them, sprinkled them with a little spice and sugar, rolled out a crust, and made them into a pie, my love."
Another gust sprang up, once again rattling the window panes. The husband and wife fell silent. Standing together at the kitchen sink, they gazed out of the window and watched the wind chase a couple of pine cones across the porch. They had their love for each other, wood in the wood box, and in a short while, there would be a serving of freshly baked, homemade apple pie, topped with a scoop of ice cream.