The slender boughs dip low
flush with deep-green fruit.
In a month – maybe two
the plums will swell, brighten
and birds will play in shadows,
dip beaks into red flesh,
beat the fallen globes on flat rock
in this silent threading path.
Tap tap. Split. Red flesh exposed.
Then they retreat, plump and preened.
Below, the way of man is blood red,
summer’s juice spilt