Got home tonight after a jaunt to the massive St Jean Baptiste party under that bridge, you know the one, (at least you do if you live in Montreal) and was called by the garden to come spend time before going into the house.
In the dark things grow, double-in-size, and spread their limbs and hopes over and around the sticks we plant to keep them somewhat-in-line, somehow-in-check, loved. The tomatoes are actually hanging low to the ground, their new sizes proving too much for the stakes they were using as training wheels. The coriander is hiding the ever timid sage and dill has appeared from seemingly nowhere.
And I find my hair, which is growing some too, has decided to be curly out of allegiance or spite to the weather, or perhaps both. It has a complacency with the night vegetables that turn and curl into plants I don't recognize, but welcome none-the-less.
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