We've lived in our house for nine summers. For nine summers, I didn't know the name of the forty-foot tall tree on the other side of the fence. Every spring, it produced frgrant little pink blossoms, but nothing else. The other day I went to check on the garden and found tiny golden fruits on the ground. Maybe the squirrels brought them. Another tiny fruit hit the ground. I looked up. The tree is full of apricots. Tiny, sweet, tasty apricots.
I don't know why the tree decided to produce fruit this year, after being barren for so long. Maybe the vibrancy of our garden is contagious. The backyard beds are thriving as never before.
The park is incredibly lush too; this morning we came across a patch of sunflowers, a currant bush covered in tart red fruit, spurred snapdragons, sweetpeas, myriad wildflowers and a stand of orange daylilies. We also received a scolding from a beaver, but that's another story.
Bees, dragonflies and butterflies are prolific this summer too; I'm not the only person to notice. The backyard is filled with birds. In a world where so much is so wrong, this little corner is blossoming.