In The Persimmon Grove

Canine teeth punctured the small orange fruit
Leaving most of it uneaten
After being run off with sticks and stones,
Little fingers picked up the remains,
Tasting the fleshy pulp
Before motioning to the others
At the edge
Of the riverine gallery forest,
Who came swiftly
To gather what they could,

Brother Thelonious leaned against the tree,
Showered by the downpour of persimmons,
Laughing as they boinked him on the head,
Taking his knife,
He cut into the seed
Revealing the winter forecast,
The spoon shaped kernel
Predicting heavy snows,
He threw an overripe one to his dog,
Who muzzled it before they headed back
To the monastery to tell the others.