ALMANAC

June is a blueberry banquet, a living shrine, a procession of sun-loving pilgrims.

Here they come, with their sun hats and baskets. Wonderstruck and reverent; wide-eyed and ravenous.

There’s no wrong way to worship.

Aging fingers work methodically, rolling over ripe berries as if they were prayer beads on an endless mala. Mothers guide tiny hands from fruits of red to deepest blue. Kitchen mystics pluck to the mantra of blueberry ice cream, blueberry cobbler, blueberries all summer through.

Life buzzes in all directions.

Cat stalks field crickets. Puppy chases swallowtails. Children sneak plump berries from brimming buckets by the handful.

The seekers come and go, each with their simple offerings: bliss, open palms, purple-stained prayers.

At blueberry church, Mmmmmmm is a sacred hymn. A pop of sweetness spells amen.

As balmy morning melts into sun-drenched afternoon, the hum of bees could bring one to their dirt-smudged knees.

Thank you, a berry pilgrim sings, praising the miracle of all creation.

Between the spike of mosquitos and the early fireflies, the birds blurt Glory! Glory!, same as they did at sunrise.

And so it goes, summer day after summer day. Baskets runneth over. Bellies fill with sweetness. All who seek shall find magic at the blueberry jubilee.