The last fig of the season is alive with wasps. Clinging by a stem to a silt vine, it’s ready to be twisted off. But the fig with its wasps must ride the bough all the way down to the give in the ground, to bury the old with the new. If it’s too soon for so deep a dark ─ wasps still laying eggs in the flowers within, not ready, not ready at all─ shouldn’t the branch resist flinging the fig onto the dirt full of the ends of other lives? At least, not with the wasps still inside.
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"Classic"
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