We pick berriesand watch for bears. Black flies gone finally. The sun and rain have done their work.
Everywhere, purple, red, and black fruit hang from the bushes, barely able to contain juice; dripping like blood as we gorge.
Then, we smell her old black bear. She must have rolled on a dead fish. Shriveled and toothless she ambles through the bushes our Dowager Queen.
Loyal subjects we yield the patch to her. God, she was ferocious in her prime. She has no taste for praise songs now. The Queen snorts and eats. The berries come first.
© Patrick O’Neill 2011. All rights reserved.