There were pumpkin babies wiggling in their nest of vines, in their September fields, in the harvest afternoon.
‘Hey, Petey,’ said Ferd, who was a little pumpkin with a high, sweet voice. ‘What are you gonna be when you’re older?’
Petey wiggled and considered and thought and replied, ‘I’m gonna be a great, scary Jack o’lantern!’ And Petey shook the vines, giggling, madly.
The other pumpkin babies laughed and their insides jiggled.
‘What about you, Ferd?’ asked Petey.
‘I’m gonna be a pie!’ Ferd cheered, and his brethren joined him in kind. The patch of cherubic gourds shook wildly with merriment.
Through the field, the farmer walked, quenching the greenery with a rusted watering can. As he passed the growing pumpkins he thought he heard a cheering chorus from the wild, shadowy vines below—one word, repeated and hurrahed: ‘Pie! Pie! Pie! Pie!’
seanpatrickwhiteley 