Blackberries
Saturday morning...
I drive to the old country dirt road...
I park and walk up to my blackberry honey hole... I hear nothing but the birds and the occasional friendly breeze. I am alone. Today solitude is a friend. My mind is blank as I concentrate only on finding the perfect berry. I don't mind the thorns nor my purple stained hands. I endure the hot, morning sun, and press on through the dense brush. It takes me back to those simple times picking blackberries with my grandma half the day. She would freeze them for me for winter. I gather the plump berries, leaving all my troubles behind. There is nothing like wild blackberries that you have picked yourself; alone on a late June morning.
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