A can of peaches falls from the top shelf in Akron, Ohio. The can of crescent peach-moons sends rolling peals of peach-thunder reverberating through the walls and floorboards, scaring the cat and startling the children. A hush settles over the house. The thunder has passed.
A can of peaches is a curious thing. Far from the peach grove, lying in gelatenous goo and sealed in aluminum, they are oblivious to the fall while the house shudders and groans beneath their weight. When a peach falls from a tree, it falls with a whisper.
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