"Bob, I'm not scared of you anymore," the four-year-old says in that fresh, open, non-sequitur way they have. Nearby, her mom photographs the poppies and represses a laugh, settling for a secret little smile.
"Oh? You were scared of me?" I think back, and decide perhaps she means she was shy of me.
"Yeah, when we first moved here. But I wanted to live where there were flowers," (giving a little twirl and inclusive hand wave), "and so here we are! It's so beautiful."
"I think so too. I'm glad you're here."
"Yeah."
We pick a few greens together from the raised bed. The plants continue to thrive. Three months on now, the arugula is bolting, so we're eating it as fast as we can so the softer leafed greens can get their turn in the sun.
"This kind is spicy to my mouth," she says. "I'm going to give it to the chickens."
The chickens, of course, gobble up greens like candy, and then bless us with delicious fresh eggs. She pokes stalks through the wire mesh sides of the chicken tractor, the hens cluck softly as they compete for the stems, and she goes inside leaving me alone to appreciate the sounds of green leaves quietly converting sunlight into tissue.
It's a good day, I think, as I munch on baby lettuce.
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