Mondays of a new week are the most fruitful ones in getting the next six days off on the right foot. However, it is time to shake the schedule up, put on sneakers and bug spray for an outside adventure to the local blueberry farm. Last year's supply is dwindling, and besides, my early morning writing is petering out rapidly. I can feel my concentration wavering. Not good. Fresh air required.
I don't have far to go—a mile down a couple dirt roads way off the beaten path. No one is picking and I have the place to myself. That is a blessing in disguise. I can talk to myself—the bear, fox and deer lurking in the woods hear me— and be free of any connection with others. Surely, more thoughts will come into my head for later.
The bushes are brimming with bluberries as deep in their hue as the sky up above. It is easy pickings, and one cluster after another falls into my hands. In a couple hours with two buckets full, I have reached my limit. The sun is rising and the temperature as well. Three more carloads of pickers have arrived, and they are settling into the end of the row. I will leave them to their own experiences. It is best that I leave.