Not on the mountain today, or any day, but between
the rows of bushes, high as my head. A small
bewildered boy toddles by with his pail,
and his mother explains. The berries
are transforming from green to pink to blue,
bitter to sour to sweet. There are bees.
There are birds. There have been
is not here, nor crazy Elijah.
Someone built a tent
at the end of one row–
I do not know.
Clouds pass fast across Hogback Mountain.
Maybe it was holy, long ago.
Berries, fall into my hands.
Turn my fingers