I venture deep into the north fence shrubs (or at least 3 or 4 feet) just before the sun breaks above the eastern horizon. The warmth of my body and the carbon dioxide I emit arouses the mosquito, weak from the night temperatures and the lack of life in the dark.
The alert is sounded, the village of them swells with hope.
“Revival!” they shout.
“We have waited for it, longed for it, prayed for it to come. Revive us, o garden lord,” in unison the sing.
The leader comes in close giving courage to the rest, “O, yes, we have heard of your fame – how you have fed us and revived us in the past; how you have made it possible for us to go on. Do it again in our day, o lord of this garden. Do it again in our day.”
Glee is apparent. Great joy begins to swirl. From my expansive perspective I look down as they approach. I wait for them to land.