Once A Year

There are children who wait all year to
Hear the sound of a click on their windows as
Tiny rocks from their
Parents' gardens
Are thrown by practiced hands.

They steal away into the night and
Follow the trail in the woods, their flashlights only ceremony,
For their feet so know the way.
And when they reach the field they take
One moment to smile at each other, but
Nothing more, because
Blackberry picking is an art that
Requires the silence of the dew-drenched morning.