Cars raced past the intersection, but I went on picking. I reflected on how few would bother to gather the fruit. They would know only the bland taste of seedless raspberries listed in this week’s grocery insert. That left more for me and the mocking-bird that hopped under the bushes.
My Dad was a berry picker. He would don boots, a flannel shirt, and a straw hat. He always believed that you had to watch for a snake lurking in the briars.
For a moment with the late June sun streaming on my neck I sensed that I was the son of a berry picker.