I’m living in a warm place now, where you can purchase fresh blueberries all year long.

I’m living in a warm place now, where you can purchase fresh blueberries all year long. Labor free. From various countries in South America.They’re as sweet as any, and compared with the berries I used to pick in the fields outside Provincetown, they’re enormous.But berries are berries. They don’t speak any language I can’t understand.Neither do I find ticks or small spiders crawling among them. So, generally speaking, I’m very satisfied.

There are limits, however. What they don’t have is the field. The field they belonged to and through the years I began to feel I belonged to. Well, there’s life, and then there’s later. Maybe it’s myself that I miss.The field, and the sparrow singing at the edge of the woods.And the doe that one morning came upon me unaware,all tense and gorgeous. She stamped her hoof as you would to any intruder. Then gave me a long look, as if to say, Okay, you stay in your patch, I’ll stay in mine. Which is what we did. Try packing that up, South America.