The carrots are well-established, and my yellow tomato plant survived its baptism of copper sulfate and sideways planting – la jefa of the garden, Anita Rockefeller, had me lay the gangly plant on its side and bury it, only allowing about eighteen inches at the top to curve out into the air. It seems to be working.
It rained intensely over the weekend, so there is no need to water. As I harvest and weed, two ravens greet each other overhead, elaborately and formally. I get the impression they have known each other a long time, but are not exactly friends.
Otherwise, it is quiet today. I was thinking how noisy it would be if plants made as much noise as the rest of us. Instead, they occupy the realms of sight and smell, attracting and repelling as it serves them. I remembered times I have crossed open fields in the hot sun and heard the crackle of wild oats and the popping of seed pods to scatter their cargo. That’s about as noisy as it gets. When I chop the discarded leaves and weeds for composting, the smell of arugula rises up to my nostrils, causing me to breathe more deeply. It makes me wonder if my sense of smell is coming back, or if it is just the intensity of the aroma.
The plant life here is palpable. Knowing this season of both full sun and rain is short and fleeting, the plants are growing as quickly as they can. They are concentrating. I feel as though, if I could just lean in close enough, I could hear the vegetables dreaming.