A recent downy mustache pushes forth upon his lip. A creep of jungle espaliers down his thigh, as wet-soil scent wafts musty from his coves— my changing playmate in the pomegranate tree. Something moves beneath me in the limb on which we sit late of afternoon of later summer. Red pomegranate berries change to purple juice, and distant mountain folds to wine-stained glow. It swings me limb to limb, throws my feet on rocky ground. I run as from an earthquake, afraid of what I’ll lose.