Just Reach Out and Pluck Something

Last week Grace and I took Obadiah down to a neighbor's place to glean some of their currants. That was unfun because the currants are tiny and the mosquitos were hungry and Obadiah was at his most counterproductive.

But on the way back Grace and I, without going to any effort, ate quite a few wild berries as they presented themselves. We ate red raspberries, black raspberries, some wild strawberries, and a handful of juneberries.

For much of the year our Vermont landscape is not only inedible, but actually hostile to human existence. But there are days in July when it seems like Vermont, if given enough of a running start, might leap the wall that keeps us out of Eden.

But even now, at it's most seductive, I recall that the green will fade. In a few short months it will all be frost-nipped and racing headlong into decay.

So, even as I enjoy the berries with my tan, short-sleeved daughter, I look forward with keener joy to the New Jerusalem.