I picked some plums today by the light of the late afternoon sun.
The plums are wild grown in a once forgotten wood. The tree, old compared to its latest surroundings: a small swing-set, freshly clipped grass, and four manicured gardens attached to four Dutch row houses. The plum tree is tucked into the corner of a communal, square-shaped park, in the shadows. Inconspicuous.
A treasure to happen upon if you pay attention.
Children shriek in Dutch with enthusiastic excitement, set loose by their parents before they are called to dinner and take their evening meal.
The ground underneath the plum tree is littered with ripe fruit. My own mouth salivates as I anticipate dinner.
I picked some plums today, ripe for the taking. Waiting to be tasted. Inspected, washed, and with a bite, I realize sometimes what grows in the wild isn’t all that sweet.