Sun-speckled shadows shifted in the summer breeze. A deeper shade of purple surrounded the old mulberry tree. The berries were ripe and ready for plucking. Maybe that old tree alongside Ernie’s lane had been planted by a passing bird, or maybe tenderly planted and tended by Ernie’s mother, I don’t know. But no one had paid attention to it for years now, standing at least 20 feet tall just where the lane snaked around the old barn. The lane was scattered with overripe fruit. Birds busily hopped from branch to branch enjoying the abundance.

Two best friends astride their plump ponies giggled and chatted, pigtails bobbing – one set soft brown, the other golden. Their usual romp down Ernie’s lane was delayed by the bounty ahead. Carefully directing the ponies deep amongst the loaded branches, the girls positioned themselves for berry picking. The ponies dropped their heads and tore away at the lush grass. The girls reached all around their heads and shoulders picking the darkest, juiciest fruit. The warm, sweetness of the mulberries sat on their tongues and coloured them purple. Everything was so calm and peaceful. They were hidden inside a mulberry world of purple and green. Insects buzzed, tails flicked busily, the girls let the ponies move step by step to better patches of grass as long as it was still under the laden branches. The reins slipped down a shiny neck and an acrobatic manoeuvre retrieved them, totally ignored by the pony.  Sometimes the girls leaned far back braced against their pony’s rump to look up into the tree, watching the leaves flutter and glisten in the sun. Time stood still; sun and shade dappled the world as they talked of hopes and dreams and ate mulberries with purple stained hands. That day, anything was possible.

Image Attribution: “Morus alba FrJPG” by Jean-Pol GRANDMONT – Own work. Licensed under CC BY 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.