One Fig was Constantin

 So the computer on my handlebars said it was ninety degrees when I left the house at 8:30ish in the morning. By the time I reached the road along the bottom of the dam the temperature had risen to ninety three. When I entered the Figgy Forest it was ninety five. Figuring that a couple minutes in the shade, listening to the bird chatter, breathing in the scent and taking a few photos would cause the computer reading to drop a couple degrees, but no, by the time I rode out the other side it was ninety six. "So that's how it's going to be, eh?" I commented to no one in particular. Those chattering birds had been relishing the ripe figs where they dangled from the green cloaked branches. They aren't neat about it either, the fruit ripped apart, and the pulp splattered everywhere. It must get boring eating dry seeds all the time, and ripe fig time a special treat.

I don't think figs consider one fig from another much beyond the ripeness of each, but Sylvia Plath did: "I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

along the Heights Trail