Rik George writes

Berry Picking

A sparrow chattered overhead 
while we picked the boysenberries. 
Our hands were sticky with the juice, 
our fingers too dirty for licking clean. 
The cat stalked the moths cavorting 
above the vines. We complained 
about the heat, but kept picking. 
Grandma promised pie for dessert. 
A thunderstorm rode down the canyon 
throwing lightning and hailstones at us. 
The cat and sparrow fled to the porch. 
We dropped our pails and ran for the house. 
The berries scattered over the lawn. 
We had no dessert that night
 
Berry Pickers -- Ralph Parker