garden gone wild

well, this is a few years back, but it seems clear that my "garden" really is more of a woodland home for creatures. It's unruly, unpredictable with spots of brilliant color that almost hurt to look at if the bright afternoon sun filters behind the leaves and reflects on their shiny surfaces. Places are dark where animals lurk, feral cats, raccoons and opossums. Guinness was in her element in the garden, where she would dig den-like holes sized for her body to relax into--surely a holdover from her wolf origins, no matter how many thousands of generations ago that would have been. Other parts of the garden invite relentless sun resulting in the best tomatoes on the block, I like to share them. All animals and insects ignore the tomatoes, the wild parrots of Brooklyn feast instead on the apples and cherries, I harvest none; maybe in autumn I'll find the odd rejected cherry which falls to the ground, wizened and dried. In late summer I'll know when a neighbor's figs are ripe, because the fig tree will shake and move seemingly of its own accord--it's the parrots dining al fresco.