Yesterday we went to Sauvie Island and picked berries at a U-Pick farm. My partner and I admired the distant peak of Mt Hood, the boats on the river, and the green and rolling fields on the way over, argued about driving, compromised, and got to the farm with plenty of water bottles and sunscreen. The strawberries were basically done; the blackberries and blueberries were just starting to come ripe; the raspberries were in their glory. The sky was blue and enormous and the sun was very bright and warm. A breeze off the river cooled the whole island. The cottonwood trees left drifts of fluff on the grass. Birds sat on stumps in the river and trilled in the grasses and copses. We picked, lazily enough, for several hours, and filled two pints of tart thumb-sized early blackberries, two of greeny-purple-tinged small blueberries each, and three of perfect raspberries. A few sun warmed deeply ripened little strawberries in the drying rows burst in our mouths. I had nothing but raspberries for lunch, and felt well content… I left an offering of a strand of beads to the great oak tree that watches over the farm, and I believe it was accepted.