She's not angry exactly but all business，

    eating them right off the tree， with confidence，

    the kind that lets her spit out the bad ones

    clear of the sidewalk into the street. It's

    sunny， though who can tell what she's tasting，

    rowan or one of the serviceberries——

    the animal at work， so everybody，

    save the traffic， keeps a distance. She's picking

    clean what the birds have left， and even，

    in her hurry， a few dark leaves. In the air

    the dusting of exhaust that still turns pennies

    green， the way the cloudy surfaces

    of things obscure their differences，

    like the mock orange or the apple rose that

    cracks the paving stone， rooted in the plaza¹.

    No one will say your name， and when you come to

    the door no one will know you， a parable²

    of the afterlife on earth. Poor grapes， poor crabs³，

    wild black cherry trees， on which some forty-six

    or so species of birds have fed， some boy's dead

    weight or the tragic⁴ summer lightning killing⁵

    the seed， how boyish now that hunger

    to bring those branches down to scale，

    to eat of that which otherwise was waste，

    how natural this woman eating berries， how alone.