Picking raspberries.
From the raspberry hedge in my back yard.
Twice a day.
In the morning, when the birds are singing furiously, before the air has heated to a moderate baking temperature.
The sound of traffic, muted by the house and the trees, enhances a feeling of lazy, summer time sweetness.
No need to rush.
It smells like summer.
Heat.
Clover.
Growing green things.
Roses.
Raspberries smell like red roses.
A hint of rain in the air or the promise of hazy humidity?
Barefoot.
Refreshing, cool dew.
In the morning.
Picking raspberries.
In the evening.
The lingering heat of the day being gently blown away by the night breezes.
Life restoring Saskatchewan night breezes.
Dragonfly savvy mosquitoes looking for a bedtime snack.
Leaves rustling in the trees overhead.
Bicycles and skateboards passing now.
Rifling through the leaves, probing the bushes, seeking a ruby red jewel of colour.
One berry at a time.
A timeless occupation.
Therapeutic.
I just love this post.
ReplyDelete"Rifling through the leaves, probing the bushes, seeking a ruby red jewel of colour."
I never knew you were so poetic"!
Lovely.