in cool piney shade on squat bushes spread wild blueberries grow on soft, mossy bed
or under the ferns among meadowsweet on berms in the sun but sheltered from heat
or on a bush rising almost to my waist so loaded with berries it bends down and sways
I'm picking them plump and cool with the dew in dappled sun under the pines morning turns into afternoon I'm losing all sense of time
cicadas' shrillness, a chorus of crickets, the red squirrel's noisy chatter, a crow's voice somehow reminds me of spring, but time just doesn't matter...