My fingers stroke the heavily-weighted clusters of Bluecrop blueberries,
tickling them off the branches and into the bright blue bucket
while sensual, poetic images flit through my mind,
tickling my imagination.
A sea of blue netting above the picking field,
played by the northwestern wind’s soughing gusts,
mimics softly-played violin strings rising to crescendo
before plunging into an untuned cello’s raspy thrum.
The wind catches its breath and I hear close by,
a white-crowned sparrow urging me onward
with its cheery, repetitive song:
“See me, pretty, pretty me! See me, pretty, pretty me!”
In the distance, young ravens
indulge in a raucous choir practice
led by adults chanting lyrics
atop tall cottonwoods alongside the river.
The sounds of the surrounding pickers’ chatter,
neighborhood lawn and field mowing,
and the hammering of carpenters fill in the gap
until the wind rises again and tunes the net.
My bucket overflows soon with the delicious blue orbs,
a few crab spiders, a splash of leaves turning autumn colors,
and the memories of the season’s pick to feed my poetic nature
come winter’s smoothies, scones and pies.
Until we journey together again, may your days be blessed with peace and beauty. ~ P