rosy red hips

Red. As ruby red as Dorothy's slippers. And every bit as gaudy as a harlot sitting at the city gate.


Jiggs was off somewhere looking for delicaies that only geese and cats can leave behind. But the red caught my attention. Perhaps that is how John Reed went astray.


My first question was: "What are they?" Had Aristotle been with me, he would have suggested discerning their essence. That other voice would be Carl Linnaeus reminding us that Aristotle was not entirely incorrect, but the correct inquiry is determining observable characteristics.


Their conclusion? They look like radishes. They must be radishes.


Of course, they would be wrong. Because these are the fruit of the wild rose. Hips that will bear a male child -- and female, as well. The rose, like all flowers, being the proud possessor of all the parts needed to pop out the next generation.


When I walk by next summer (if I am visiting from my home in Mexico), there will be more fruit. And more roses. And more discussions between Aristotle and Linnaeus. Because the circle moves on -- and we move with it.