Eating a cherry

On the way to school, in the rain.

Despite the concrete, the asphalt, the bricks, the steel, the general busyness of a patch of Earth with more people than sense, Bloomfield is part of what once was a vast temperate forest.

The trees remember.

On the walk to school, mulberries beckon. On the walk back, I gnosh on a cherry or two.

Om the way back–they may already be carbon dioxide again.

Absolutely free, absolutely delicious, absolutely unearned.

Grace.

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