Sigyn gets...ideas sometimes. Inspiration can strike seemingly out of thin air. I’m not sure what’s triggered this round of enthusiasm, though I have a sneaking hunch it might be the radishes she sliced the other day.
Whatever the impetus, Sigyn has now declared that she’s going to start a garden. I’ve tried to explain to her that this town is cursed with a salty clay soil and that the local water is also horrifically salty. The summers are brutal. Not much will grow here, and that’s a fact.
We’re lying here on the lawn, in the shade, discussing just what her prospects are.
My beloved, however, has a sunny optimism that nothing can daunt. She is not deterred. Perhaps the soil somewhere else in the city will be better? And maybe someone has already made a good start and could use some help? She’s set off, therefore, for a Community Garden she’s heard of, in hopes of snagging a plot of her own.
Well, she’s found it. The people look friendly enough, I suppose.
They’ve told my sweetie that she can help out wherever.
I’m not sure that big rake is going to be useful in the raised bed of carrots.
Sigyn is squealing. The garden has a chicken! There’s a feeder/waterer and a coop and everything!
Are there eggs in the coop?
There is! And it’s still warm!
Oh, it’s beautiful here. Sigyn’s admiring the trees and lawn and shrubbery. There are a lot of flowers here too. She’s definitely in her element!
The beds are full—and they seem to be coming up on the lawn as well. They clash a bit with the red thing, though. Sigyn, is that a post box behind you?
Yes, yes it is. Is there something inside?
Uh, oh. Looks like the chicken doesn’t always leave the its nascent offspring in the coop. I wonder how long this has been here?
Quite a while, I assume. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure that eggs aren’t supposed to be gray.