Movement alerts us to a hare springing from giant brindled haunches,
pausing to graze on alfalfa & weedy greens, dissolving in long grass.
A white monjita lands on a prickly pear, another on a wooden stake
rigged to an olive tree: sites with fragrance of ripening fruit & views.
We cycle through swarms of tiny black insects: every immersion
flecks our shirtfronts, arms, & thighs, catches Mike’s watering eyes.
Yesterday large ants gnawed the gardenias until Mike sprayed poison
fatal to the ants’ algae farms: today the foiled workers are gone.
One tree per day, I say, my promise to pull the giant weeds surrounding
each staked trunk, crowding the watering holes: Mike & I weed two.
I fill two banged-up construction wheelbarrows with large & small rocks
I’ve dug while weeding, rocks to border our future vegetable plots.
Despite our plan for a rest day, we’ve biked, weeded, tested outlets,
repaired curtain rods, watered, hauled rocks: As always, we’re tired.
Besides, we’ve talked to each other more than usual: it’s what happens