Judith Skillman Picking Blueberries Impressionistic, the poplars waving above Mercer slough where two boys hunt for snakes using only a bucket and the machismo they were born with.   The bushes tall and orange-red, the berry stems like wicks set to tease out blues from the furrows— rows swollen and rubbed raw by other pickers. We like to take the easy ones full of sweetness, like the painter who sees nothing but paradisiacal imaginings above his easel: couples in canoes, couples in kayaks, the paddle raised high before it dips into water to disturb a crust of algae. The painter over his head in beauty, entranced. September.  Another winter quivers in the bog as it moves toward us. There we'll reinvent dreams of summer. Then we'll remember the inky harvest— whatever fell into our creased palms to purple our fingers and darken our tongues.

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