At first light the soil looked empty, then a row of tiny pink noses practiced their hellos. Each one whispered to the dirt, waited for the watering can to nod, and only then showed a fingernail of color.
We asked at the kiosk by the garden fence. "I thought the bed had forgotten to grow," said a woman with a paper bag of greens. "Then I saw them taking turns. Nobody jumped the queue. The roundest one waited longest, just to be sure the can had seen it."
The gardener who planted the row last week left a note on a stick: greet the soil, nod to the spout, and appear no more than a fingernail today. The watering can, for its part, has started leaning toward the bed at the first hint of sunrise.
A day later neighbors returned with the same paper bags. The noses had practiced overnight and still said hello first.