How many trees--miniatures at that--
before we call it an orchard. How much
pleasure bobs there, for how many songbirds.
Something so big in the little fruit trees.
Yet one peck and they spoil the juvenile fruit.
And the deer lean their whole earthly weight
to the mesh fencing, scraping the mild
derma of trunks down to the infant bone.
And beetles drink the sap of what's left, even
after it's dry. And fly away, separate,
each to a high separate limb. Crisp leaves.
And the green pears shrivel hard as nuts.
And something strips the sour cherry overnight. Fruit for the beast. Not a leaf left for love.
By David Baker