Reflections Under a Fig Tree During a Late Summer Shower
Sometimes, nothing is more perfect than a gray, wet weekend. It gives you an excuse to stay snuggled deep in bed til the late morning, rousing only when the thought of blueberry pancakes tempts you more than the softness and warmth you find there.
And when nature calls for the little beast, we head up to the hills, where the cover of chestnut trees and pine keeps us dry. On our way down, we stop under a fig tree, where he snacks on the fallen fruit, lightly fermented remnants of August's heat, and I the ripe ones from the branches overhead. We stay there, the only two souls out in this late afternoon shower, until I can't reach anymore and it's time to go home.
Sometimes, nothing is more perfect than a gray, wet weekend. It gives you an excuse to stay snuggled deep in bed til the late morning, rousing only when the thought of blueberry pancakes tempts you more than the softness and warmth you find there.
And when nature calls for the little beast, we head up to the hills, where the cover of chestnut trees and pine keeps us dry. On our way down, we stop under a fig tree, where he snacks on the fallen fruit, lightly fermented remnants of August's heat, and I the ripe ones from the branches overhead. We stay there, the only two souls out in this late afternoon shower, until I can't reach anymore and it's time to go home.
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