Still. Everything is quiet in the hot afternoon sun. The birds are hiding in the deep shadows of the woods, and only occasionally do I hear one call. The little boy next door has stopped running, yelling, and playing. No squirrel chitters, no chipmunk squeaks. Barely a car goes by. People are already where they want or need to be.
Meanwhile, in the cool of the garden, that brute of a hosta—Frances Williams—blooms.
Minerva, the little cat, waits until nighttime, when she can romp in the dark, and no one will see her.
Except for the small bird, who watches and waits, ready to take off at a moment’s notice.
No matter the temperature, the garden is a mysterious place.