Strawberries, like the children who pick them, are a fragile fruit, colorful and sweet.  The ripening season for both disappears far too soon.

Less than three weeks ago, two little girls I know walked up and down each long, long row—baskets swinging, voices singing, fingers and lips stained red—now, suddenly, these empty, wrinkled beds.  Half-past June.  Under the cricket moon.
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Andrew Dabar