The morning sun had not yet crested the jagged eastern spires, but the high atmosphere had already transformed into a sea of pale rose and lavender. Down in the valley, a cool, fragrant moisture hung over the long grass, settling in microscopic beads upon the leaves of the wild currant bushes that lined the property's perimeter. The river ran lower now than it had during the peak of the spring thaw, its voice shifting from a thunderous roar to a deep, soothing baritone that hummed softly against the stone banks.
I stood beside the southern garden wall, holding a heavy iron hoe and a bundle of seasoned hazel stakes. The ground here was being prepared for our late-summer climbing beans and squashes—hardy crops meant to supply our winter storehouse alongside the orchard yield. The soil turne
