step off the grass and into the crop circle

My favourite fruit is the blackberry. Brambles, we call them. They grow wild by the roadside in the late summer months into autumn, protected from pickers by a vicious array of thorns. If I remember correctly, their appearance on the vine broadly coincides with the first bloom of psilocybin. Cars travelling over the speed limit with two wheels inches from the ditch pose a more significant threat.

I like blueberries too. A staple in the US, with hardier varieties grown in some parts of Europe, we have to have them imported.

Those blueberries don't travel well.

The best arrive frozen in transit. I am only really fond of them when they retain that keen note of sourness; a bitter tang like the best of grapes and sherbet.

I suspect those 'visitors' which plague late August skies have not come to harvest berries. They seem more intent on vivisecting cattle in situ. Or spiriting the odd hapless berry-picker off for a haircut and manicure, only to deposit said victim several hours or days later close to the original scene of their abduction.

Probably it is no small co-incidence that many of these strange occurrences take place near military installations. On desert plains, or deep in woods infested with all manner of foreboding notices. Take it as read. Those particular beings are riddled with all too human failings.