Morning Mist in the Garden

Yesterday morning I planted pink skullcap, mistflower, and fennel and dill for the swallowtail butterflies. When I step outside to check on the new arrivals, my skin feels damp, my face slightly chilled. A fine mist hangs in the air, covering the lime green leaves and the pom-pom-like globes of antelope-horn milkweed that peek out from the emerging prairie grasses. A ruby-throated hummingbird zips past me, headed straight for the coral honeysuckle's fiery pink blooms. And the smell . . . fresh, earthy, clean.

The rain, especially in the spring, makes me feel more alive, more engaged with all the tiny happenings in my yard. Rain brings possibility.

raindrops on bluebonnet leaves

Out and about in the drizzle, the leaves astound me - their varied shapes, sizes, and textures, the way they hold on to the rain.  Leaves are magnificent structures: waxy layers or fine hairs or a curve here and there, and water clings, forming streams, pools, and droplets. Lizards and insects gather to drink out of these pools on the hottest days.

Some leaves, like cacti spines, have a small surface area that helps conserve water. Some broad-leaved plants have waxy bumps that encourage water runoff, preventing fungal growth. Some leaves seem to fold forming a cup-like structure, guiding droplets down the stem and toward the roots.

A short walk around my yard in the morning mist opens my eyes to the diversity of leaves and blooms. Surface droplets shimmer and shine. I can't look away.

Maybe there is no such thing as rain; there are only raindrops, each with its own story.
                                                                       Robin Wall Kimmerer