Early this morning the city looked much like it did when Liberace was alive and eating tangelos, I suspected, and he was on my mind when I biked past an unknown citrus tree, sagging with orange fruit. I turned around to get a closer look, biked past it again, then turned around and parked my bike. More squat than a kumquat, rounder than a tangelo – what WAS that fruit?
The name of the fruit is beside the point. What's important is that this tree, whatever it's called, fruiting spontaneously in the middle of the Mojave, is a form of magic, and any sourness I may have detected when I bit into – were they clementines? – was made sweeter with the memory of my having stolen them.