On the vine the grapes are almost ripe.
Plump purple bunches
Pendulous pyramids inverted by gravity,
Hanging in the cool shade.
Here and there a touch of green, hard and dense,
Among the ripe bursting grains.
Almost, almost.
Almost does for the blackbirds,
Fluttering through the sun-crackling leaves
In their hysterical haste.
Crashing and clucking, they gobble,
Picking the ripest, sweetest,
Ransacking the harvest.
Cat watches,
Impotent in the face of such fury.
No matter.
I would rather blackbirds than grapes anyway.

