The nasturtiums by the porch have opened a morning table service. Their round leaves greet each bead of dew, nod once to the waiting bee, and then present exactly one saucer, as if breakfast were a very small, very polite affair.
We asked at the kiosk. "I used to think they were just leaves," said a man with a paper bag of rolls. "Now I wait for the nod. The bee already has a favorite plate."
The next morning the same bee came back and sat at the same saucer. The leaf only nodded once more, and the porch smelled a little greener.