I hopped a low curb on my mountain bike
and rode onto the packed dirt of the corner house's side yard.
Apples still hung on the middle tree, although many had rotted.
Squashed apples stuck in my tire treads.

The second apple I picked sent a shower of yellow leaves
and overripe fruit onto the ground. A brown apple hit my head,
then my shoulder.

Fall in Los Altos and now her persimmons are just about ready.
One branch has already broken under the weight
of the ripening orange fruit; the persimmons have withered there,
far up in the tree.

My neighbor might not be so sanguine about my casual attitude
toward her fruit trees when her persimmons are finally ripe.


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