Gardens are not static things. They take time. They are time. Spring is an exciting screengrab in the garden’s temporal existence. Flowers are blooming, hummingbirds are swooping, and lizards are just starting to scurry from the shadowy porticos in the rock piles. These intimate little moments are the single notes that make up the garden song. I have always struggled with the early stages of these compositions, since there are only a few random notes it can be damn near impossible to fathom what the thing could become.