Behind our back, ground squirrels
crawling on their bellies raid
the peach tree, an Elberta with huge

fruit starting to color that bob
and bounce across the pasture,
bigger than the heads that run

with them gripped in yellow teeth.
Come evening, a flutter of black
feathers, our resident pair of crows

dining at the fence line on scattered
cadavers, fuzzy lumps awaiting
buzzards for breakfast.

Everyone trying to make a living,
nothing goes to waste,
not even peaches.

                                        – for Mas Masumoto



  1. Sometimes it’s a wonder you get any of your own fruit. How many time did I reach to pick a beautiful apricot, only to have my finger plunged into yucky on the back side. I hated birds as a kid. lol Mom would cut out the bad part and make jams and jelly.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Modern agriculture has spoiled us into expecting perfect fruit at the grocery store, oftentimes giving up flavor and sweetness for appearances. Obviously, your Mom got it, leaving nothing to waste.


  2. These recent poems keep stirring memories in my soul. Like the time I saw three crows on a branch of a plum tree. They where flapping their wings in unison and holding onto the branch firmly. And the branch shook and shook and all the ripe plums fell to the ground. The crows hopped off and proceeded to take mt plums away. Clever bird those. I was happy to let them have ’em.


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