Picking Blueberries

July starts, and berries turn
From green to pink to blue;
There’s no place quite like it here
Picking the bushes with you.

The clouds hang there in the west
Dark and rumbling low,
But somehow the humid atmosphere
Holds them back while we go

Through the maze of branches searching
For the perfectly plump and round
Little berries with all their sweetness,
Now on our tongues summer’s found.