By seven the greenhouse glass was already busy. Drops lined up at the ridge, took a breath, and slid the long way down, each one pausing at the pane as if checking that the lane was clear.
We asked the gardener by the watering can. "They used to fall any which way," she said. "Now they wait their turn. The tomatoes keep a quiet score. If a drop rushes, a leaf just looks at it until it slows."
A note in the visitors' book, written in pencil and a little damp: "Came for the peppers. Stayed for the applause. Please do not wipe the glass before noon."
The seedlings, for their part, do not clap so much as lean. One extra inch toward the slide is considered a standing ovation. A day later the same drop — or one that looked very like it — came back for a second ride and nodded to the basil before settling into the soil.