I rejoiced with the soft tug of each fruit as I held on and it let go of the branch. Every few berries, I put a single one on my tongue and warm it dissolved abandoning juices, filling my mouth. The farmer's son was watching over the cash register. It turns out his father died the winter before. We just check your tongue, he said.
Purple tongues are a real giveaway 'round here.
My tongue's a giveaway. I am full of life as he looks up, abandons the shade of the little hut, steps into the open light, and I half-expect him to break into dance, spin me through aisles and aisles of berries, color spilling from the bucket hung loose on my wrist. It would be easy to describe the horse's flank-those thick, dark muscles invite metaphor and the word flank resonates with all that power of speaking something solid, something that can stand tall against our hands then gallop away. Tomorrow, we will leave this camp, set out along the river on foot, yelling and singing to warn the grizzlies. This morning, the two of you climbed back into bed, letting us sleep, the smell of cinnamon rolls rising and seeping through cracks to tempt us, and I imagine you held each other close, as you do on these long summer mornings, letting nothing, not even sound, slip away.