Perfect Moment

There's a John Mayer tune on the radio,
Both windows in my brother's battered grey pick-up truck are rolled
all. the. way. down.
Micah and I ride toward home, each with one hand out our open windows
our other hands meet in the middle to share a basket of fresh
strawberries from the farmer's market.  Blue sky and wispy clouds above,
waves of winter wheat and bright yellow canola flowers
roll along next to the truck.
I look over at him; he's quiet, intent on picking a stem from a large
juicy red berry.  He throws the stem out into the wind and looks at me.
Pink stains on his fingers and chin are accompanied
by sticky red drips down his shirt.  He bites into one
and oh that smile.  Ruby red lips embrace juice stained teeth,
tiny fragments of berry and seeds still plastered to his face.
He turns back to the window, pressing his face into the wind,
and John Mayer continues to serenade our perfect moment.