The first mango of the season is in
miniature, precise down to its blush
but smaller than a peach, skin and flesh
hinged to a pit the heft of an almond,
and like furniture crafted for a dollhouse
it is on scale with the blue jay who flies
with it, clamped in his beak, to the ficus
hedge, where he lets loose the fruit to peruse
it with an eye as practiced as a chef’s.
Propped just so on the twisted crop of bush
that serves as counter for the mise en place,
the jay sharpens his beak on the bark to his left
while the mango waits like a grape for the crush,
the chief of tense change from is to was.