“Black,” our dog named in Chinese after the dark colored coat he wears, rushes out to me in excitement, noticing there is an audience for his attention. The usual sniff of my back with a cautious approach is taken, taking notice of my hands, where my eyes are, and my buttocks as I walk past to the back of our house where the persimmons lie. With the persimmons season completely over, the tree like mostly blank, with some eaten fruit hanging from it’s branches. Probably the work of the local birds peking away at the sweet fruit, breaking into the skin to expose the juicy treasures within, full of spiced fall and winter flavors. I too look forward to indulging myself with what is left of the fruit, knowing it would be a great mix with my tart non-fat yogurt mixed with a crunchy verity of nuts. This I know because I’ve experienced combining the three before.
The skies a grey with clouds looming over, waiting calmly bearing heavy loads of rain to come. I search the scattered trees amongst the damp compacted grounds, cruised over constantly by trucks and tractors with tire trail marks leading to the furthest parts of the farm. I reach out to feel the last fruits hanging from naked branches, checking their firmness with the pressure from the grasp of my hands. A little squeeze tells me if the insides have gone soft and whether or not the persimmon would last the ride back to orange county. Though few, the orange color of the persimmons stand out in contrast to the dark background of rain clouds, making them easier to see. I’ve seen some, most have past their time as delectable deserts or a breakfast meal, but even the few are not up to par – often time wrinkled from too much weathering and a stop of nutrient flow from the roots of the trees. 
