Stewing

I just picked a handful of Tiny Tims for supper. There's an army of them ripening in a pot on the front step, some red to the point of splitting. The plant is as tall as me, its branches sagging wherever they lack support. That's most places these days.

The trees all around stood still as I picked. Not a whisper. I don't really trust those trees. Not anymore. Some scientists believe trees communicate with each other. I can just imagine what the willows are saying, especially after what happened to the birch. I suppose tomatoes communicate, too. They sure raised a stink as I picked them off.