I like the feed store—racks of garden seeds, rows of tools and implements, the oiled wooden floor creaking and thrumping underfoot.

I love the slightly acrid whiff of nitrogen fertilizer, the hummingbird feeders and martin houses along a back aisle.

Once in awhile, an old friend there. We talk and catch up.

I try never to leave empty-handed. Today, departing, I stop halfway down the concrete front steps, lean over the side, and lop a weed with the shiny hoe I just bought.

summer shower
hoisting the melon
onto his shoulder