The seed blew in on the wind. She almost pulled it up, decided to wait and see. The first year, its pointed leaves were soft. By year three, a prickly bush formed. Summer stretched its limbs. Winter saw it blotched with bundles of berries.
Soon, she would decorate Grandma’s house.
Ice and snow came unexpectedly. They huddled watching the frozen garden. A flock of grey and pink arrived; fruit became covered by feathers. She stood ready to defend her harvest.
An aged hand halted her.
“Waxwings…” Grandma whispered. “Better than Santa!”
Witnesses, they held hands as the bush was stripped bare.