Picked

I feel plump and round. The purple in me is royal. The canopy is the visor of my comfort. It’s Day 1 of three possible days for me to be picked off my vine. I see my master coming towards me. He’s wearing his Cordura picking bag and it’s half-full. He tastes a sample and knows I’m ready. It’s time. I land on top of my friends. “Hey, excuse me. Sorry. Wow, cozy.” My master’s ankle isn’t too well. He’s limping and putting more weight towards the right. I’ve never noticed. It feels different now that I’m about and moving. He steps on clay and limestone repeatedly. I see a great deal of the sky. It soon becomes the roof of a different canopy. We’re in.

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