My hands are murder-red. Many a plump head drops on the heap in the basket. Or, ripe to bursting, they might be hearts, matching the blackbird's wing-fleck. He's left his peck in some juicy cheeks, when at first blush and mostly white, they showed streaks of sweetness to the marauder. We're picking near the shore, the morning sunny, a slight wind moving rough-veined leaves our hands rumple among.
Fingers find by feel the ready fruit in clusters.
Flesh was perfect yesterday . . . June was for gorging . . . Don't step on any. Don't change rows. Don't eat too many.