I have a small garden, I’ll say again. But for some arcane reason the trees last year sent out a sign amongst themselves to be fecund, to share pollens together and make seeds of almost magical fertility. And now that a cold and suspiciously stormy winter has lifted with some degree of certainty, those seeds are all awake.

It only needs to be said once, but you have to remember to tell it to yourself every time until it is second nature.

For years now I have operated unknown, unseen, gardening in the shadows.

In the rain, yes.

In the late evening as light fades, the western sun long set behind the crest above my garden, clinging in the dimness at the edge a small cliff over a sodden valley.

And at night, with lights, to the perplexment of my neighbors as I grew my garden higher and denser to block them out.

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