Mangoes, mangoes, mangoes. We have mangoes. Overnight a half dozen will fall, all bruising and most sampled by birds or rats or something by the time I get to them. Then in the daylight, the sweet rain continues. We pick, too, our next door neighbor and I, and yesterday six year-old Louisa participated, a keen-eyed spotter whose talent will come in handy for a couple more weeks at least. Some of the fruit is even at eye-level this year, branches so generously adorned that they bow to Marie the parrot in her cage at the base of the tree. Literally dozens are within arm’s reach. Hundreds more hang above.