The garden lay all in shade, except for three wild sprigs of tomato vine, like three plumes on an extravagant hat, leaping up from their parent bush to catch the first beams of morning.

Growing things.  Yes.  Tomatoes rounding and reddening beneath the wild plumes, and fuzzy pods of okra lengthening and thickening beneath broad leaves.  The crazy intricacy of passion flowers on dog pen corner post, and one passion fruit hanging amongst them.  Plump ears of yellow and white sweet corn, and mound of green husks and sticky corn silk, with fat caterpillars interspersed.

And, today, blueberries, in a wild, woodsy yard.   Blueberries practically dripping from the laden branches into willing buckets under a gray sky.   We heard the rain before it arrived, heard it on the other side of woods: a wind and thousands of drops on thousands of leaves coming nearer and nearer.  It was a drizzle at first, and we picked berries regardless.  But then came a rush and roar, and we were soaked before we reached the car, with berry buckets almost full.   Laughing.

I love the rush and the roar and the laughter, but also I love the quiet.  The sound of water dripping into the sink as I lift handfuls of berries from the water where we’ve washed them.  The gentle bumping of the berries as they roll between my fingers and strike one another in the colander.  Seconds passing on the clocks on the walls; the turning of a large, musty, dictionary page; a length of blue yarn travelling from skein to blanket stripe through fingers and golden hook.

Also, the tumult of tomato plants reaching up to catch the morning beams.


©2010 by Stacy Nott

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