The tree no one planted
plants itself everywhere—
fencerow, alley, the seam
where garage meets ground.
We call it weed.
We call it volunteer.
The birds call it food.
The catbird knows
what we refuse:
the branch bent low with fruit,
red going to black
going to ink.
She takes the gift
with her whole gray body,
chin stained like a child’s,
like…
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