They're in

Those dark sweet berries on the old dirt road. Sally and I walk over every afternoon with the dog; we bring old strawberry-stained quart containers in a basket and a hat to keep the prickers from my hair. 

I am allowed to leave the stroller parked on the edge of the gully and venture down under one condition; I must come back sporadically, every handful or two, and feed the beast. One berry at a time, stains on her face and thighs. Now she's squeezing juice down her fists; now she's sucking seeds from her toes.

What have your afternoons been like?