Would I love black raspberries so much if I could get them all year round? Sure, I could buy them at the store, but somehow opening a little plastic box of overpriced fruit just isn’t the same as standing on the cool edge of the woods (raspberries like partial shade) and picking them myself.
You get the ones that are so ripe they fall off the stem, and the ones that are still a little pink around the edges–those are tart–and there’s the purple-and-pink spots that develop on your hands and clothing, and the little scratches that sting when the sweat runs into them. And if you know where to look, you can get about a gallon a day.
And there’s the lightning bugs, flashing their insect comeons in the dusk, an earthbound constellation, and some years there are cicadas, and someday I’m going to work out how one’s supposed to count seconds and cricket chirps at the same time.
The world is soft in summer, that’s all I’m saying.