In one corner of the yard, there is a small peach tree. I mean, the tree and its peaches are both small. This year, the crop was small, too. Last year, there were close to a hundred peaches on the tree, but they weren't very good. This year, the total was thirteen. For some reason, the quality of fruit produced by this tree is inversely proportional to the amount. Those thirteen peaches were excellent. They were firm, with a creamy texture, juicy, but not dripping, with just the right amount of sugar, and a flavor that was the essence of peach. There is never anything like them in the stores. This tree is proof that, sometimes, less is indeed more. Picked fresh and eaten still warm from the sun, they were like little nuggets of summer encased in soft, velvety skins, as refreshing as the stored-up rains and possessed of a fragrance as sweet as the spring blossoms whose promise they fulfilled. If the perfect day of the best summer ever had a flavor, it would be the flavor of those peaches. The cherries this year were few and flavorful, as well, but those peaches were amazing. They were worthy of a painting by Monet.