Berries

I'm on my mountain bike descending into the brambles on a late September evening. Thorns catch my arms. The sun's setting and sends out jetties of light onto the trail.

I don't think I'll ever get tired of seeing the brambles in BC. They zip by and I can just see they're bearing fruit. Branches sag with clusters of red and black at their tips. Spiders are weaving their way through the branches and leave their lacework behind.

The calendar says it's not Michaelmas yet: the berries are still good to eat. I stop trail-side and tug at a berry that hangs at waist-level. It's too firm, and I know it'll taste sour but I taste it anyway. I spit it out next to my feet. Then I aim for another, this one too ripe. It explodes in burgundy all over my fingertips.

Finally I get one that's got the right amount of give to it. I blow on it to chase out any bugs inside, then I pop it into my mouth. It's an understated kind of sweet and I get swirl it on my tongue, swallow, and juggle a few of the remaining seeds between my teeth. I pick a few more, cupping them loosely in my hand, then push on down the trail and on toward home.