Blackberry blossoms, pink-white under bees— rabbits look up longingly. Blackberries ripe and sweet; my brother and I pick them— reaching through thorns. Thrushes flying south pluck at withering fruit— old blackberries falling. Rain, snow, and sleet rattle through curling fingers— bare blackberry brambles. The wind whips against our cladding—inside we eat blackberry cobbler.
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