Carl and I came upon the plum in the overgrown fields of a dying farm. The home had already fallen to the earth. The nearby forest is approaching the very last plum tree in the old orchard.

On the last plum tree in the orchard is also the very last plum. It is swollen ripe with the resources of nature, purple and black, glistening wet in the early morning sun. The last of the wet collects into beads of water on the plum and drips slowly to the ground.

The plum is removed from the tree. Carl and I share the wonderful treat, juices in our mouths and on our chins. The pulpy fruit is tender and sweet. The skin is tough and not sweet but a bit sour.

Licking our fingers clean we move on to our next adventure of that day a long time ago.

From 'Voyages of the Vicky Mary'. Copyright.

180