The fig tree wasn’t the only reason
for buying the house
but the thought of that fresh fruit,
fragile and rarely found in the market
swayed him.
He hadn’t considered
war with the squirrels.
They weren’t enemies.
Their acrobatics
amused him,
their taunting tisks
entertained the dogs.
The first summer
for his handful of figs
the squirrels got hundreds.
He googled a solution:
powdered fox urine!
The squirrels weren’t fooled
and claimed another victory.
For the third battle a new strategy:
in the night he aimed sovereign streams
at the base of the tree
staking a more personal claim.
By July he was making pasta with fig sauce.
Figs stuffed with goat cheese, walnuts and
wrapped in prosciutto.
Figs with yogurt and honey
or cooked in port and ladled over ice cream.
One morning as he spread fig preserves
he turned and saw a squirrel
perched on the fence
peering at him
paws holding a fig
raised like a trophy.
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