There’s a plum tree near by, full of delicious plums, not the tasteless crap you buy at the market, but ruby red juicy plums that have three hundred and sixty-five days of beauty in them. There are so many plums, I can’t pick them fast enough. I’ve picked four or five sacks full so far and gave away most of them. The tree is a giver, but there have been casualties. The casualties drop to the ground and the birds don’t even want them then. It breaks my heart when they fall to the ground. They’re so tasty I want people to enjoy them.
I’ve realized that the birds get angry when I’m outside picking the plums. They’re territorial. You wouldn’t think it, but they are. I can hear them tweeting, and communicating. They become more active. I get the impression that they think I’m going to pick all the plums, and not leave them any.
The birds have waited just as long as I have for the plums. They’ve been out in the rain, in the cold, in the wind, the heat. The least I can do is leave them some.
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