Hot July morning, sun a burner left on high. Raspberries,
beveled treasures; sour pie cherries, ruby globes, filling 
the cardboard picking box.  I’m by myself, listening to the chatter
of my neighbors in adjoining rows.  Some of us are up on ladders; 
some are down in the brambles and briars. We all think we’re
in high heaven, after the long winter, late cold spring.  If this 
were a protest march, would a few be carrying opposite signs,
shouting invectives?  Maybe so, but we’re here in this small
orchard, sharing recipes, tips on preserves, how to make
a good pie.  We cradle our baskets as if they contain unruly jewels.
And then we go our separate ways, licked by the thick tongue
of the sun, to bring some sweetness to our families,
blinking our blind eyes in the multilingual light.