There's more to it than just gathering the berries from the branches and pinging them into the pail. Not far from where I begin to pick I begin to grow casual, to do nothing. Nearby a field sparrow is throwing out the ladder of his song. Over and over it falls from his pink beak. I sit down under a tree and listen. Oh, to hear him within the enclosure of nothing else! I sit so quietly that sometimes fox comes and crosses the field, hawk flies over, heaven touches my forehead. The sparrow keeps giving his excellent song to the world. How fiercely I want to forget the commotion of my life. How peacefully sometimes, in the Truro fields, I do.