Picking strawberries in June

A cardinal is singing
over the strawberry path
as we bend and stoop
to pick the ripest red.
The language is foreign
To my ears – the cadence
lifts from Asia far or
meanders in from Spain.
We are all the same.
This is what we do –
as friends and children
wander out of doors
when the sun heats our
pores and the blackbird
squawks, and the sparrow
wings. I am content
with juice slipping down
my chin, sticking to my shirt,
to my hands.
This is sublime, this red,
red strawberry on
a June day.