Do they emerge as ruby lotuses from the humbly mucked peat-bogs, vines winding skyward. Do they fall into the bog, enveloped in preserving mothersoil? They wait for a child with bucket and squelching galoshes to deliver them, take them to their _maker_. Not quite at home with other fruits, they sit uneasily by as rasp*berries* and blue*berries*, black*berries* and straw*berries*, perhaps even the occasional boysen*berry* are plucked and popped, into watered savoring mouths. They must wait for the penetrating drying assault of the sun, or the thanksgiving grinder to unlock their unappreciated potential; the **kranebeere**, acid-red and waiting.