The water spread around the stems in quiet rings, soaking six inches down into the soil.

I shut off the spigot and hung the brass nozzle over the fence post.

My hands were black with damp earth.

I wiped them down the front of my canvas apron and stepped back to admire the row of green stems lined up neatly along the brick path.

The sycamore leaves above the roofline were going silver in the early sun.

A mourning dove landed on top of the fence, cooed twice into the still garden, and flew off toward the citrus trees behind the barn.