The Pink Lady dangles, ripe, trembles beyond reach.
I stretch my arm up, ripple branches, wade through waves of leaves,
paddle twigs aside. Still, acid green flutters about my empty hands
as my fingers, breeze-licked, search in vain for fruit.
A jackdaw rides a gust and lands above my head.
His beak pecks, takes what I could not. I watch.
He eats: flesh and pips and plump white maggot.
Next year, I’ll be taller. Will I have the stomach?