There were blackberries this morning on the cross-country course behind Wake. Honestly, I don’t know if they were blackberries or black raspberries, and part of me will be needled by the fact that I’m not sure, but another part is still back in the bushes by the trail, reveling in that incomparable blend of sweet and sour, pricked fingers and succulent fruit.  The lip-puckering sun-filled globules burst sugary black against my tongue, leaving their seeds to be fondled and swallowed while I stood smiling, blissfully unconcerned with the other runners going by.  I hope they came back to feast after their warm-downs, too.

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