Before breakfast the rhubarb by the side gate had already formed a patient line. Each stalk bent to the soil, whispered a hello into the dirt, then looked up at the cooling pie on the kitchen sill as if asking whether one more pink inch would be welcome.
We asked at the corner kiosk. "I thought they were stretching," said a woman with a paper bag of sugar. "Then the nearest stalk nodded at my pie, and only after that did it deepen. I left the window open so they could see the crust. It seemed only fair."
A pencil note on the gatepost, from the baker next door: Please do not pick until they have finished greeting the ground. The pie is not in a hurry. They are practicing one stalk at a time.
The next morning a neighbor stood with a fork and waited. The tallest stem blushed a little further, the pie steamed politely, and a sparrow on the latch looked as if it had been invited to dessert.