— Pushpa MacFarlane
A crow crouched atop a tree
caws incessantly. Piqued,
I peer out the window to find
the cause of this ruckus.
The object of the objectionable cawing
hangs on a lower branch—a ripe mango,
green outside, but a flush orange under the skin—
sweet, succulent flesh sinfully luscious,
as it dangles on a long green stem.
I can taste the moist ripeness and
feel the hardness of the stone
in my mouth.
The long strands of thread-like filaments wrap
around my tongue-barely for a moment,
before the crow dives to drag
the fruit down, peck and rip
at the tight green peel
to reveal golden fruit, juice-spills
staining the ground.
Unflinching, the predator plunges its bill
into the sweet flesh, gouges out a portion,
then clutching it, makes a desperate getaway
to the roof top—leaving the torn forbidden fruit,
writhing on the ground,