We are picking the winter oranges.

They are small but very sweet

wonderful for juice.

They had begun to fall

it was time.

      Don't pull them off, I instruct, roll.

Rolling works with the inclination of the tree

she will give up herself more

willingly.

Ed rollerskates on the fallen fruit hidden

beneath tidal leaves.

He fossicks one up - holes - no good - ants -

have been secreting sweets.

      Leave them.

They are not salvageable and ants need vitamin C too.

The Orange glows with secret knowing.

It is a youngish tree

but spectacularly fertile.

      It would make a fine Christmas tree, I reflect.

It is already festooned with golden globes.

      Christmas is in December, you correct.

      Yes, but in the high country it is celebrated in July.

It is an Australian eccentricity, one of many.

      That still won't work, you say.

      Oh?

      It's August.

Ah. Stymied. The oranges shrivel in my mind.

       But... you continue, we are stripping the tree, so....

      ...so... I jump in, it is January.

He smirks.

I laugh.

The tree winks.

Later when I am supposed to be squeezing oranges

I am writing instead.

Ed walks in, unexpected - uh oh!

He sizes up the situation in a blink:

      Traffic held up on the South Gippsland Highway

he reporter-intones.

      Woman pulled over blocking traffic - writing poem.

      Swing Bridge closed indefinitely till she decides

      what rhymes with 'dill'*.

      It was 'quill' I laugh and get back to squeezing oranges.

.

*dill = slang for idiot.