
Back home, a man on a pair of steps is painting the front window of a terrace house. In the window, sits a tall, black dog on a window seat. The dog, its ears pricked, watches every movement of the man's feet and of his hand and paintbrush.
This morning as I gather nasturtiums to put in a vase, I realize that the bees, which are still plentiful, are looking for the same newly opened flowers as I am, I, because they will stay fresh longer and they, because the newer blooms will have more pollen than those which are beginning to fade.
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