On a weekend still cool enough I turn back for my sweater, the first tinges of summer heat brush the air. Strawberry season drifts to it's close, brief and hidden in the tumultuous turn of the seasons.
It looks rather discouraging at first glance. Long green rows are dotted with bubbling children, scatterings of dark, soft, overripe berries, and plants that weightlessly dance in the sun. The farmer points us to an abandoned section with a smile, a box, and a lifeline;
"Don't be afraid to push back the leaves. If they were easy to find, they've already been picked"
True to the promise, they're there. They hide in the shadows of the thickening leaves and the mounds of earth. I scoot through the stiff hay layering the ground between the rows, nudging my cardboard box with it's softly rattling tumble of loot. I lift layers of leaves, and gently push aside tangled stems and vine rotted fruit to find the hidden gifts.
Brightly glowing in their first touch of sunlight, they're a hint of the miracles waiting to be found if I just take the time to look.
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