Night time by a wood fire, outside, in lawn chairs. We talk and laugh. And an offer is made for wild strawberries. They are small she says. She knows that he says.
Sancho and I amble up the sandy hill and there are wild strawberries everywhere. And soon there will be black berries or black caps. The field is filled with wild yarrow, mullein, cinquefoil, and as I pick each tiny berry on my hands and knees in the low grass, dog trying to steal berries out of my bowl, and me feeding him the small sweet juicy and maybe a little bit sandy morsels, there I see two leaves, I pluck one and pop it in my mouth, tasting the familiar tart sweet of sheep sorrel. I pop the other in my mouth just as quick. I find a lot more, enough to make a small salad.
In the heat of the sun, dew soaking my pants and that bitter smell of country. It is like my soul has been waiting to come home. He gives me free reign of his land, as long as I stay out in hunting season.