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green (red) berries in my pail. “They make the best jelly,” I say to no one in particular. That is what I will do with these blackberries. Jelly making is a wondrous activity: there is shimmering purity and beauty to the results. It tastes of the essence of the fruit.
Of course, I was listening and looking for birds. Experience has taught me that blackberry patches are fine havens for birds. A robin flew out of the great tangles as I entered. Other than that, there were mighty few. An Indigo Bunting began singing from the top of a tulip tree. I gave his syncopated, bouncy song full and loving attention.
Bird song in the blackberry patch reminded me of berry picking with my mother and her sisters long ago in the heat of a North Carolina summer. I was a somewhat reluctant member of the berry-picking team. My job was to drive the
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