I’ve been walking as part of a quest to reclaim something that resembles my familiar body and personality, adding a little time and/ or distance to the walk every so often. Not only do I get to walk between seas of corn dense enough to provide their own sort of isolation, but I see all the things that bloom and set fruit and ripen by the roadside. Right now what’s ripe are the wild blackberries, so I took a covered measuring cup with me when I headed out. I figured I could pick a couple of cups of berries easily.
I did some freestyle berry picking, getting anything I could reach without sticking my arm into the bramble, but for all that only gathered about a cup. They’re very sweet, but they lend a whole new meaning to tiny. I’d say they’re no more than a fourth the size of those grown and sold commercially. They’re also considerably more fragile and easily squished, as is frequently the nature of fruit that hasn’t been bred more to survive transport than to taste like fruit. So my sky-born images of collecting enough to make cobbler will remain in the sky, but there are enough to make a lovely addition to breakfast. And I had fun.