Air scented with dew-softened grass moves ever so slowly on a July morning. Drops of condensed moisture from night’s air sparkle on sweet William pinks and reds as first rays of sunlight touch them. Every-so-often a tiny breeze crosses over the tops of petunias, sending a subtle sweetness through the air to mingle with bird song.

White mulberries, fermented and ready to drop, are morning breakfast for robins and grackles. The birds eat; branches swaying as they pluck the fruit. With bellies full they drop themselves to the yard, pie-eyed and lazy. Their stupor wears off in a while and they return to the tree.
Young birds, some with tawny brown and others still small enough to sport fluffy gray feathers, trail after parents. With squeaky squawks, they pester mom and dad all day long to poke fruit in their wide open beaks.   
No one knows who or what planted the mulberry tree. Perhaps someone wanted to make jelly and pies with the fruit. Now it is a nuisance, littering the corners of four yards with mushy fruit, a heavy smell of brewery proportions.
Pesky gray squirrels, on the other hand, feast on lily blooms, young Brandywine tomatoes and anything else they see us humans enjoying. Aluminum strips of foil fly in the breeze around gardens and flowers, in hopeful moments of warding off the rodent raids.  
A noon train blows its whistle. With just the right atmospheric pressure, the whistle sounds clear through trees and around houses to seemingly to be headed our way. As its wheels pound the rails, one can almost imagine seeing the caboose man wave as he passes us by. 
In days gone by, bees would be buzzing through white clover blooms in the yard. Today only a muffled drone of wood bees is heard above as the giants of the bee world seek wood to bore holes in.
A hefty brown toad has had a good spring, feeding on mosquitoes under giant green hosta leaves. Without a sound he makes for the shelter of yellow-blooming ground cover behind the swing.
Mulling over the mulberry mess, perhaps we’ve been a bit hasty in our judgment of the tree. Perhaps if we gathered them for pies next year the squirrels would turn their attention to them rather than the lilies and tomatoes. White mulberries are said to be sweeter. Branches do hang low enough to just shake them into a sheet.
James Whitcomb Riley even lauded the tree:
“Countin’ all the joys that was dearest to me,
And a-thinkin’ the most of the mulberry tree.”

Mulberry Pie
2 cups mulberries
2 cups rhubarb, diced
¾ cup sugar
¼ cup flour
Pastry for 2-crust 9-inch pie
Milk and sugar

Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Line pie pan with crust. Combine both fruits, sugar and flour. Toss gently to mix.
Pour fruit into pastry-lined pan. Adjust top crust and seal edges.
Cut a steam hole or a few vents. Brush milk over top and
Sprinkle with sugar.
Bake for 30 minutes. Cover with foil
If browning too fast. Bake another 10 minutes or so until crust is deep golden brown and juices begin to bubble up through vents. Cool.
Recipe Source: adapted from Farm Journal Country Cookbook 
NOTE: Some older recipes call for berries only. In that case, use 4 cups berries. Adjust sugar to taste. Other recipes call for tapioca to thicken
instead of flour. In that case, follow rule on tapioca box. 
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