Walks with Miss B often lead to rambling in tangled bushes, her nose busy among the roots and me keeping my arms well away from clinging thorn-branches. The blackberries are heavy with fruit, and no few of them have turned soft and semi-alcoholic. Backyard and streetside plums are both dropping their fruit, and wasps crawl over the larger ones, drunk and largely placid. Among the blackberries, though, it’s fat bumblebees singing tavern songs, and birds small and larger feasting before they veer away at my approach, hopping and stumbling, flapping their wings like welcoming, very tipsy socialites. Miss B eyes them dubiously, and snaps at zigzagging bees. Thank goodness she hasn’t caught one, yet.
Autumn is coming.