A bumblebee, fat as my thumb drones above me, buried in the locust tree blossom. The birds contest their rights, vividly, as the squirrel comes close on the overhanging branch, leaps to the roof, & maneuvers his way to the fuchsia which he tries to eat. A crow, sharp, apt, caws. At this point another bee decides to investigate me.
It will be warm day. I put nearly everything into pots this year.
The pot out back, above, the pot out front, below:
This is the sage with bees you can’t see:
I read recently there is a chemical released when working with soil that wards off depression, so much so that one is compelled subconsciously to garden.
I wonder what weeding does for the mind?