in mid-summer sun while I am picking berries from a bird's orchard on the knoll. They are handfuls of raindrops and blue as pebbles in a mountain stream. Pouring them into a bucket I hear the tiny feet of mice. I leave some room on top so as not to spill any. On my way home the cicada's buzzing breaks the blown glass stillness of afternoon. Sun spangles fall on th e path tis way and that.