There’s a special kind of wonder in beginning at the beginning
A winter Sunday morning. Near biblical rain for, it feels like, 40 days. The pathways are saturated and water streams. The lowers plots are littered with random pools.
I am not keen on walking on the soil. I don’t want to impact or churn it. I am not looking to make mud. The chicories sit in small lakes. There is the slight air of Glastonbury. At least I didn’t bring a tent.
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