The entire neighborhood loves my pear trees. It’s almost winter, and the sickly sweet scent of decaying fruit fills the air. At first, they told me I should be cleaning up the rotten fruit, but after I pointed out that all the local hornets were too busy feasting in my yard to be stinging their children, they quickly warmed up to the notion.
That, well, and the massive influx of all manner of butterflies that flocked to my yard to join the hornets in their smorgasbord.
It’s a shame that most of the fruit rots on the tree, but such is life. I don’t much care for the fruit. I give what I can away. Each year I get at least one new tree.
It’s days like today that I can really sit outside and savor the—pardon my pun—fruits of my labor. There’s a cool, autumn breeze blowing the fragrance all over. I must say that the smell of rotting pears oh so very well masks the scent of other rotting.
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