summer berry death

the birds are sifting with their mousey movements they are mooing rattling their throats, whistling high steam notes each sound another star popping open the cold ocean air is arriving in straight lines as if it has rolled in on the tracks and the bright chill of it is making each leaf of the tall tree stand on end the breeze causes your ear drums to shrink and the vine in front of you to shiver you are staring at the mass of the vine, hurled over itself like water over a cliff, except its curly and thorny and rubbery you are staring into the crimson shadows of the bramble and you know the dark berries are hiding in the flesh of this tangle you stick your arm down its thorny throat to reach in for those round little tonsils and you feel a thrill in the pluck in the tiny sound of the berry letting go of its root you collect them in a napkin lined basket, and watch the white fabric dye pink and then purple. the birds are egging you on they are celebrating the first day that has sunk under the hot sugar the whole day has swollen like a loaf each breath fills the blood with sweet like a mosquito and this is where you'll die, with your raw arm the dark vine, the sun so close you can feel her wide nose on your bare shoulder, your naked back and ankles, pant legs rolled up and everything will be stained with fruit.