ABSTRACT
LISA LOVED THE EARLY morning stillness which greeted her when she took fresh water and feed to her hens. She loved opening the henhouse door, standing back to watch the leaders fl y from their night-time perch and dive into the run for the grain and treats she scattered. This fi rst morning chore always eased her into the next, of dew-laden harvest. Now, in April, the last of the Tuscan kale lay alongside the early fava beans and a full brimming box of pink-red rhubarb. Lisa chopped the rhubarb leaves short like a child’s summer Mohawk hair cut before carrying the boxes of bundled, shining vegetables to the back porch-bench. She sat down beside them, one hand silently stroking the wet kale before leaning over and taking off her grass-spotted boots, then padded into the quiet kitchen to brew her fi rst pot of coffee for the day.
