At the portages, few stopped to pick blueberries
clustered tightly by fistfuls in easy reach, the blue
tears in grey pre-rain light; my son and daughter
sang with the yellow finches feasting on wild delight.
We kneeled among bushes aside the trail, worrying
little beads into our open palms and plastic bags.
Small price we paid: a risk of rain, for prayers.
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