Like Goths to the Flame

The problem with gardens is that they’re eternally in transition, with some plants on their way up, others on their way out and just a few trembling at their very peak. The scabiosa were really better three weeks ago, and the string beans really delicious in late July. Come back next week, and the catmint will have filled out, and my L.D. Braithwaite roses will be in bloom, floating against the Hollywood cypresslike wads of red tissue paper suspended midair. By then, too, the King and the Queen will be gloriously smooth-limbed again, pink-skinned, naked.

Today, beside Khan, the whole seething garden seems busy and right where it is, at once past, present and poised. Hummingbirds maintain a low buzz in the flowers, like many tiny airborne motors. The cat lashes his tail. All I can see beyond my yard are treetops and sky and fuzzy clouds, and a glimpse of the San Gabriels. High up the King’s branches, squirrels are squabbling — once, I watched a quarreling squirrel fall from a high limb, scolding all the way down. Then silence.

A tiny, precise, mean pinch on my leg, and another, break the mood. Ants. Back to work — I’m going to pull up some of those zucchini. Nobody needs four hills’ worth.