Berries

We picked black raspberries on a morning walk this weekend. The berries were wet and sweet and full of tiny seeds; the thorns along the canes are sharp, but not particularly aggressive. They are plentiful on the edges of the woods: enough sun, but not too much. The dark, ripe fruit released with a gentle pull and sometimes fell off with just a touch. The berries are considerate enough to grow at heights that I don’t often need to stoop or squat to reach them (though squatting is a good way to spot those I might have missed), but not quite considerate enough to grow right next to the mowed paths.

We worked our way around and through the understory, trying to avoid burrs and being careful not to step on the raspberry canes themselves or too many other plants. I found myself standing on one leg a few times, looking for an opening on the way to the next group of ripe berries, like an elegant and majestic crane slowly making it’s way through tall grasses. (Well, maybe more like an ungainly and awkward industrial crane just…standing there, wondering what to do.) In any case, it was a good reminder that simply standing on one foot is a nice movement, too: improvised tree poses among the trees.

Warm, humid and drizzling; it was the kind of warm summer rain that soaks you completely a little at a time without ever giving you a chill. Listening to the light rain and searching for ripe fruit, I noticed that I wasn’t noticing much else. I heard the occasional runner or dog-walker on the paths, but never really looked up. Other animals browsing in areas like this would be pausing frequently to glance around to see who else might be approaching. We’re a bit more focused and goal-oriented, I guess. But at the same time I can’t help but think that that kind of focus when one is out-of-doors is somehow inappropriate; arrogant, even. Or maybe it’s just a little rude to be so absorbed in my own activity that I don’t bother to look up into the canopy to appreciate the cardinal that’s singing.