The leaves of the blueberry bushes blaze red this late in October & at sunset they seem to call to Moses, the whole row of them almost aflame in that light if only for some minutes before dusk. That’s what’s passing for miraculous these days, same as it’s always been. Same as it ever was, David Byrne sings from the stereo, turntable spinning the way it’s done for decades. Again no fruit for us, but the birds of Frostburg have eaten well, so I’ll go once more to the Farmer’s Market to buy the last of the late harvest, berries thumb-plump, deep indigo like globes of the nearly-night sky: sweet with a slight—but not unpleasant—bitterness.