After two years the pears have grown and now
drop on their own, ripe and perfect. Or is it the
other way around? Whatever the order of their fall
they are ready to eat, only two tasted first by birds
rising before me in their opportunist dawn raids
for insects and worms and grounded fruit.
Pecked by gentle beaks, it is no more than a nibble -
minute craters of gouged-out flesh; rounded indents.
I take a knife to mine and slice it down the middle,
discarding the core cut from my four quarters of
bite-size joy in this new and home-grown treat.
How utterly twee and at ease is this rural sharing -
no need for an even earlier look about the tree
like a vigilante forced to watch in a troubled street.