by John Sangster
Two crows steal apples from the orchard, black-eyed thieves shuttling their cargo (only what’s ripe) into the woods. Do I pick now or wait until the crop’s ready, risking a full-scale heist? Not just crows, either: coons, woodpeckers . . . When you live in the country, my neighbor says, it’s hard to keep the country at bay. What’s ours, a human construct, a curious theory having nothing to do with the way the world works. The crows, here since the ice age, can’t imagine why we newcomers would want to grow fruit for them. Whatever, they say. Kings, Jonagolds, Spartans—delicious.