#135 – Woman Sixty Two

persimmon

No one has picked the persimmons at the top of the tree.

 

Out of reach and overripe, they are swollen, blushing a ready

scarlet.

 

Each full fruit forcefully bends an accommodating branch

into a curve.  Several remain camouflaged behind crimson leaves.

 

In the morning the ravens squawk and swoop in to eat the fruit.

She observes their black feathers in contrast to the auburn orbs.

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