But! They’re my grapes for making wine — Mine!
Yeah? Who said so?
The squirrel is munching whole bunches and
robins one grape at a time, splatter purple
droppings on the patio.
Hey! These are my grapes.
Really? Nature grew these just for you?
Sunlight, moonlight, cloud water?
Yeah. Mine Mine Mine.
Even the mouse, who lives under the downspout spillway,
clambers over the arbor and picks out the
juiciest and fattest grapes, leaves his blue turds.
Get over it. Stop crying.
You’re not in charge, said Mother Nature.
You never were.