By eight the dill had already lined up like a row of tiny parasols still folded for the night. An ant in a hurry paused on a stem, received a whispered good morning, and only then continued toward the carrots.
We asked the gardener at the shed. “They used to burst open all at once,” she said, wiping the watering can. “Now each frond waits for a nod. The carrot at the end of the row is the usher. If she hasn’t nodded, nobody opens even a single spoke.”
In the complaint-and-thanks notebook someone had written, in very small letters: “Thank you for not shading the lettuce until lunch.” Another note, slightly damp, read: “The ant was on time.”
The next morning the same ant came back and sat on a stone as if it were a front-row seat. The dill opened one ray, then another, and the carrot, looking pleased, nodded just once more.