We were the only ones there:

It was late in the day, late in autumn. We hit the hay maze first, Shuffling through the narrow passageways. The hay looked dry, but smelled moist, I thought. We took two rights and a left, and that was it. Free at last! Mary laughed; I nodded. We shot rotting apples from a giant slingshot, Trying to hit the white targets attached to the trees; We were on fire: three for three. We savored each hit: The apples smashed against the barks with a wet smack: We were practically giddy with delight. And then we saw a neat wild turkey: It ran out of the nearby forest, all brown and neurotic, As if it was lost or something. I glanced at the giant slingshot and smiled. Don’t even think about it, she said. I laughed. OK. The next moment, the bird was gone, vanished. We bought hot cider from the owner; a kind old woman. Is it just regular cider heated up? Mary asked her, Taking a careful sip. We put spices in it, too, the woman answered, and for some reason I found this exchange between them very amusing. I took a gulp from the steaming cup: It was like drinking autumn itself; very tasty. On the drive back, we realized, at the same time, That we forgot to get a pumpkin. Idiots! But soon, we got over it. We still had plenty of cider. The road was narrow and winding, and on both sides, The trees were burning up with color: They have carpeted the road-side with reds, yellows, oranges, and even greens. We rode in silence, breathing deeply, devouring it all with our hungry eyes, knowing that the winter was almost there, Mary and I, on the last day of November.