Wandering along a street
up in the hills of Tirana,
I pass a man who is
harvesting ripe olives
from a handful of trees
at the edge of the sidewalk.
I stop well beyond him
to take a photo of the trees
and then step in close
for a photo of a clump of ripe olives.
I hear the man calling to me.
I look but I don’t understand him.
I think that he must be angry
because he thinks I’ve taken his olives.
I say ‘photo’ and
mime taking a photograph.
Another man caught between us laughs.
He motions to me to pick some olives.
I look at the harvester
and he nods and motions to eat,
not really to eat off the branch,
since that’s not something that’s done,
but to take some away.
I pick an olive from a branch
and both men watch me hold it up to the sun,
inspect it in every which way,
and then put it in my pocket.
The two men look at me expectantly.
I give a thumbs up
to the quality of the olive
and hold my hands together in thanks,
and then both men smile
and nod
and give thumbs up too.
