The other night, I dreamed that a squirrel was leaping on my face. I like squirrels as much as the next guy, but they are nefarious creatures and I believe them to be completely capable of such rude and irresponsible behavior. Be assured, I passed each squirrel with great skepticism on our walk today. It’s better to be safe than sorry.
However, I am not here with a think piece about the moral complexities of squirrel behavior.* I am here to tell you: I Am In The Garden! Yes, that’s right. The Garden, Our Garden, My Garden.
It’s presently cool outside;
on Wednesday, it became fall.
A year and a half ago, we bought our first house, and with it, our first non-balcony garden. The yard, as we inherited it, was simple and quiet: grub-eaten kentucky bluegrass, a few inopportunely located boxelder maple volunteers, day-lilies tenderly encircled by stones, ostrich ferns, a few hostas, a riotous grapevine winding up the trees and power lines.
In sifting through the soil we found recent histories and slightly deeper ones. We found creatures, and roots.
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