"They are raspberries"

I don't have pictures of the Raspberries but
here is a handful of strawberries I picked on
my way to the bus one morning.

I spotted the beautiful berries on Saturday as I began my first run since a cold overtook my body Tuesday night. I thought about them all afternoon at work. At 6:30 this morning, I dressed quickly, grabbed an ambitiously large Ziplock bag, my iPod, and hurried out the door to the raspberry patch that spilled over the sidewalk from a vacant lot. Thirty-five minutes into the prickly bushes and fireweed blossoms, a woman and her grown son walked by me as I untangled my headphones after an eager reach to an extra big berry. I could tell by the style of the woman's plump hair and their well shined garments that they were not from here. "Picking berries!" she exclaimed. "Yeah. blackberries," responded her son unintelligently. "Ooo blackberries!" she repeated.
"They are raspberries," I said pityingly as I emptied another handful of the bright red berries into my Ziplock. "Oh Raspberries!" she said, never changing from her brisk pace—though what they were doing on this empty side of town, I have no idea.