There is a black cat that comes to our yard. The cat will run away if it sees me, so I have to hide. I want it to stay because I think it will keep away the rat that goes into the garden. Also it chases away the birds that have been eating the kale flowers. I want the kale to go to seed, but it won’t if the birds keep eating the flowers. I haven’t seen the cat catch a bird, though I’ve seen it try.

A few days ago I noticed the surface of the soil moving up and down beneath one of the dill plants, like the roots of the plant were dancing or trying to escape from the ground. A few seconds later, the movement happened in a different spot. I realized it was the gopher that makes mounds of dirt in the yard. Or maybe it’s a mole. Supposedly their mounds have different shapes but I can’t remember the difference.

It’s impossible to know what to expect from things. This afternoon I was rinsing lettuce and the salad spinner started to sing. It had a high-pitched voice. It didn’t use any words I recognized, it just wailed. Then it stopped. If I really lived as if anything could happen at any time, I think I would move very slowly, and chew my food like there were already rocks in my mouth.

I had this idea that even though I usually resist the images I see or that occur to me–I usually want them to be different than they are–I could try instead to steward them. Just see them on their way, at least. One of the images, the one I probably resist the most, is my own.

There’s a small tree in the yard that didn’t grow leaves this spring. By now it’s clear that its roots are dead. Spiders, though, have been living on it. They anchor their webs from its branches. When the sun is in a certain spot, the light turns the webs white and it looks like the tree is slowly releasing an unmoving mist. Since the spiders might eat the leaf miners and slugs that eat the chard and kale and spinach and lettuce, I won’t cut down the tree.