“The predictable march into each season has lost its rhythm.”
The sweetest mulberries in Durham, North Carolina, grow in Maplewood Cemetery, on a tree that shades the grave of Leon Jeffers. Every year, in late May, I forage my way downtown, heading north from the Lakewood neighborhood. The first tree teems with a swarm of bees so profuse that the branches seem to vibrate. The boughs of a second tree droop with fruit, but the berries are often dry. The fruit of a third tree, on Carroll Street, is succulent, though I stopped eating from it when I learned the city used to burn trash in an incinerator a few yards away.