Jenn observed through the window:
“There are buds on the trees.”
“Those are berries, love, and they’re going to fall on my car.”
She meant the other tree.
When ripe in the dripping warmth of late summer they fall hard. I spent an afternoon wiping clean the finish. Pointlessly — they were back the next morning.
Within a quarter day they’ve crusted over, their sturdy shells and gooey bellies nursing spiderweb cracks in the night blue finish. I get worse shit from berries than from birds.