on mulberries

I.

In Arkansas in 2016, 31 species of birds were surveyed visiting a suburban mulberry tree. At matins their procession began, still groggy from the hangover of the heat. From a nearby porch a group of scientists watched this “avian frugivory” through their binoculars. It took, on average, 1.2 minutes for a bird to forage a single fruit.

They came in droves, American Robins swooping in to capture a berry and then darting away into the foliage. On the ground below, Northern Mockingbirds sparred for a morsel of the fallen decay. The scientists were surprised by the presence of migratory birds who made the tree a pit stop on their passage.

On one branch, a Cedar Waxwing dropped a berry into the mouth of another.

II.

This summer the smushed remains of mulberries coat the sizzling sidewalks of Washington Heights. Our thick-soled leather boots stick-unstick-stick in this seedy, half-dry pulp, grinding it further into the pavement. The emerald subway globe gives off dappled light — freckled by the dried-on fruits like love bug carcasses on a car windshield, smashed into smithereens entirely unawares.

I have thought many times to pluck one of the fat little berries off the heavy-laden branches and pop it into my mouth, but haven’t done it yet.

In Valencia, only guiris eat the fruits off the orange trees. On the Upper West Side, “ornamental” kale taunts in its steady wilt from the sidewalk planters. Would Still Life: Kitchen Counter on the Upper West (Oil, 2024) depict a head of that apparently “decorative” cabbage alongside a shopping bag from Fairway Market?

In NYC, there are more male trees than females, intentionally planted this way to avoid the presence of fallen fruit. Whoever planted the mulberry trees missed this memo —

it must have been the birds.

III.

As a small child in Atlanta, I would tug up the hem of my t-shirt, folding it over to create a pouch, and set-off for the mulberry tree at the end of the block. The tree grew up against the cream-colored corrugated metal wall separating the dead end street from the interstate. Unbothered by the sounds of cars whizzing past mere inches away, my grubby fingers foraged clumsily for the succulent berries, depositing them into my shirt and occasionally slipping one into my mouth or that of my friend, Eve. I would smear the remnants of the maroon ink onto her cheeks and lips and we would become as fairies. 

Later, my brother and I would return home, faces stained and palms sticky with the savors of those perfect afternoons. Our parents would guide us towards the table — the old door of the house covered in a thick sheet of greenish-glass. We, of course, would protest. 

“Frugivores” — we proclaimed we now were — “like the birds!” and rejected dinner.