It’s that time of year.  The trees have bloomed, have stunned us all with their nostalgia, their branches dripping in blossoms. They’ve birthed the cherries, and we felt proud of their produce, felt so American, so plentiful. But now the berries have sat hot in the sun, have dropped to the ground by the bucket load. Now we wake early, before the babies, rake the beds, the lawn, the dirt. Now the toddler stands at the edge of the deck and points out the sticky clumps in the grass; the baby squishes them between her fingers, delighted at the rotten warmth. It’s that time of year. The birds fly dizzy in the air, fly into windows and roofs, the squirrels fall from the limbs, bellies and brains full of sweet, fermented fruit. And we feel it too— the overdone days at the end of August. The last withered sprint of summer before the gentle release of fall.