Behind the office, past dense clumps of rosemary, still wearing its purple-pink blossoms and filling the air with the smell of an Italian kitchen, trees still showing their summer green are thick with red berries, clinging closely to their branches in heavy clusters, as if the trees are wrapping themselves in red to keep warm for the coming winter. Like a warm red sweater over their twiggy limbs.
On one row of trees, hundreds and hundreds of these diminuative monarchs are swarming in a cloud around red-berry branches. The dusky pale of their underwings sparkles like champagne bubbles around the trees, dazzling the eye, too many to track. Around the black asphalt of the parking lot they drift in twos and threes, but around these trees, they celebrate in throngs too quick to count.