At home. Pot of chili on the stove. Sitting on the grass picking berries as the sun goes down. Red Currants. Lifting their green arms up and plucking the strands of ruby reds from the underneath. Spiders everywhere but I don’t seem to mind them when they are in their own environment. Its me in their house now, if I get bit I’m deserving of it. Ruby the red hound dog next door is for once calm and gentle. She watches me with caramel eyes and nothing behind them. She paces. Red fingers. Meditative work. Finally I can hear my own thoughts. They are calm and gentle too. The only sound in my ears is the hum of distant lawnmowers, a plane somewhere overhead in the blue and the murmur of my cousin making my mom laugh with his stories. Blackfly got me. Red itch spreading across my stomach. Picking berries makes me appreciate the skill of my hands. Makes me feel like a monkey, those most dexterous digits, pokers and sorters. Dad shouts down from deck above, “Hey! What are YOU doing?” “Pickin’ berries.” as a matter of fact. Feels good.