I did my rounds today in the garden; the usual, only earlier.
This is the difficult time of the year for the garden, and for gardening. The peas are spent – what’s left is starchy, but I’ll let them dry on the vine for seed next year. The romaine is mostly bolted and I haven’t kept up with consecutive plantings. The squash and zucchini are behind, not even flowering yet. The tomatoes are green and hard, but full of promise if I’m patient and even in my watering.
Have you ever picked a tomato off the vine, taken it to the kitchen, cut it open, and felt the warmth of the sun still inside? You can hold it in your hand and let the warmth soak into your skin.
Though I did not sleep much last night, the rest I got sustains me today. As I watered the tomatoes, smelling their good, green leafy smell, I thought of nothing else. I felt like a monk.
Then I heard a lovely complex birdsong and looked up into the trees. I found the bird; small, bright yellow, at the top of one of the cottonwoods. A golden pear on a dead branch. And above him, wheeling in the sky, a falcon. I could tell what he was by his pointed wings and the way he flew as though he owned the sky – a prince in a blue court. Then he was joined by his mate, and they circled and dove, riding the same currents in a swift aerial dance. I was up there with them. Then they were gone.