Wind-Ripped Maple, Monterey Peninsula


The plum was perfectly ripe, sweet, and bursting with juice and flavor. Rays of the sun warmed the deck and soaked into my bones, leaving nothing to desire but more of the same warm, bright liveliness. Luscious drops of plum dribbled off my hand, and the purple flesh held that perfect texture, soft but firm enough to hold a bite. 

The morning air, filled with the purr of traffic and the calls of scrub jays, began to disappear into the screaming of a jet taking off from the Monterey airport. To be that loud, they must be veering off the flight pattern, I thought, and I winced as its volume increased. The taste of plum filled my mouth, and the jet ripped, the unavoidable elbowing its way into the moment. And the sun splashed across my face, and sweetness dripped from my chin.