This fruit is sweet and convoluted like a dried out brain. It is contained between two wooden turtle shells locked together like a puzzle. This fruit is meat and bread of barn squirrels, fat chipmunks, bugs and birds. In Scapoose, it’s raining. The three of us are crowded in the cab of Chuck’s pickup, smoking cigarettes and waiting. If the rain passes we will go out into the walnut fields. Our boots are muddy. The sun breaks through the branches but water falls. Tall grass. The lanky an beautiful beta blue Cadillac grumbles in his grave. The engine turns over like an acrobat. Cathedral curves gloriously blanketed by rust and dirt and cobwebs and woodchips. In response comes the hoot of a barn owl. This fruit is not bitter but carries the aftertaste of dust. This fruit is a hidden sculpture waiting patiently in the dark to emerge from its cocoon and be destroyed by powerful jaws like kamikaze or communion.