I love returning from the garden with questions.
Each day, something has changed, and I find myself asking: "Does this plant set seed? What bird is calling?"
The birds are hardest. There are so many, so quick in flight, so well-concealed when still. The larger birds are easiest; confident and cocksure, unafraid to strut, free-style from the tree tops.
Plants, obligingly, remain still for Q&As. This morning, cutting an armload of hydrangea, I thought of an artist friend, Sara Farmer, who railed against a gardener who "refused to let anything transform", beheading dying buds before they could set seed. Yes, their flowering days were over, but rewarding, important work, remained. I know the feeling. In homage to Sara, I cut an armload of blue life - and a single stalk of withered flower head. Are seeds buried in the wrinkles? The answer is less important than the finding out.
