Summer is berry picking time around here when me and my milk crate seat commune for an hour or two with birdsong and cool mornings, purple stained hands and the happy sound of berry plonk as they fall into my tray, after which I walk toward the forest where another seat awaits, also red, but this one, blessedly, soft and tilting back and so feet up, eyes closed, hands still well stained and the only sounds, a mourning dove somewhere in the nearby tamarack or spruce and one much further away along the creek, speaking to each other, I listen for I don’t know how long because I have no way of telling time except for my Mississipies as I count (almost always five) between their echoing coo-coo-coo-coooooo…s

and all I can think is how I’d love to know what they’re saying.

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