The Garden That Hummed

In the garden behind a house with yellow shutters, things began to settle in for the night.

The flowers were folding up their petals, one by one. The peas had finished their stretching for the day. The tomatoes — and this is the surprising bit — had begun to hum.

It was a low, orange hum. You could hear it only if you bent very close and held very still. Most people walk right past tomatoes without listening. This is a shame, because tomatoes have a great deal to hum about.

A snail named Gerald was making his slow journey home along the path. Gerald had been on this same journey since around lunchtime. He was getting close.

"Evening, Gerald," said the rosemary, in the way herbs do. Gerald waved one slow horn in reply.

The moon came up over the apple tree. A small breeze moved through the herbs — through the rosemary, through the mint, through the parsley — like a hand smoothing a blanket.

The watering can, which had dripped itself empty hours ago, lay quietly on its side. The rake leaned against the shed and thought about nothing in particular. The wheelbarrow had a single beetle inside it who was, by all available evidence, asleep.

The tomatoes hummed on.

The flowers folded fully shut.

Gerald reached his small flat front door, said goodnight to the rosemary, and went inside.

The garden was settling. The garden was happy. The garden was, all things considered, ready for bed.