Hardly a place for repose, the garden is quite the contrary the center of activity.
I write this from the garden in early morning; of course I am not equipped with my camera to capture the yellow jacket that just drank from Gramsci’s water dish; or the honey bees that visited the hosta flowers; or the cardinal that sat atop the Buddha, then flew to the pot in which the Japanese maple resides (for now), and then to the bistro chair, and finally over to the Lady in Red Hydrangea before it flew away; or the moth that fluttered about; or even the worms that perform their composting digestive feats below the surface.
So much happened this morning, but now, mid-afternoon, the garden is quiet. A slight breeze occasionally blows, just enough to ruffle the leaves but not enough to make Lena’s maracas clatter. The heat of the day stifles; even the birds, though they chirp, are not as active as they were this morning.
But the bees still gather pollen, and Gramsci cat rouses from his afternoon slumber to eat a few blades of grass and Liriope.