when i stopped by the old barn,
a favorite spot for photographs,
and found a meal of raspberries.
Fresh paths led the way.
Others had been here.
I ate the ripest, careful of the plant,
mindful of those who would be next,
natives, I suspect, who knew the land.
I paid attention to the thorns against my legs,
to the rain upon my arms and back,
to the burst of wildness in my mouth.
I heard myself breathing.
A calm set in, and for a time
the world seemed rigged in my favor.
Young blackbirds flew in mobs.
I rode home grateful for my life.
