My hands fumble with the sticky berries as I plunk them into the small container. My little fingers come to a juicy ripe berry, I stick it into my mouth as quickly as I can before my mother or father can see. My sneakiness does not help me for the purple juice is all over my lips, cheeks, and chin. The sun is high up in the summer sky, and no clouds roam. The wind is meager as it tosses my long hair. The marsh reeds and bog behind the black berry bushes is invisible. The Cape Cod air is sweet with salt and ocean scents. A sea gull cries above the marsh, looking for oysters to pry open. Another bird, a hawk perhaps, circles an area not far from where I stand. The cattails whip about as suddenly the wind becomes a rush. My mother calls, and I scurry out of the brambles, trying not to get pricked by a sharp thorn. I come to my bike and we set off down the dirt road to our little cottage some ways away.