I spent much of Independence Day within a small fenced area behind the building I live in. I locked myself out. No keys. No cell phone.

Sunny and breezy, the temperature felt rather cold, otherwise the time would have been pleasant. I got to know pretty well a golden Buddha sitting against the fence. I arranged some of the rocks and leaves and sticks and dirt around it. I looked at a fly, a four-winged moth, a chickadee and an ant that showed up. A long-haired cat walked by on the other side of the gate. I did some kicking stretches. I called up to the manager’s open kitchen window, but no response. I meditated. I walked along the sides of the building. I came upon a tiny cherry-colored plum on the ground, fallen from an old tree next door that happens to be the tree outside my apartment window. The plum was plump and unbruised. I was hungry and thirsty. I peeled back a strip of skin and tentatively tasted the drops of juice. They were cool and sweet. The flesh was yellow and fresh. So, I ate the plum, and felt cheered.

After a few hours, the manager returned and came downstairs, and I was freed. I almost sprang through the door. But the time spent in the small fenced area seems minor because of the perfect plum.