A close-up photograph of a green bell pepper resting on a weathered wooden surface. The glossy, lobed pepper fills the center-right of the image and has several small punctures and damaged areas; one larger opening exposes pale seeds and inner flesh. Its lower edge is partially flattened against the wood. A rough gray tree trunk rises behind it, with blurred green foliage in the background on the right.

At night in Plot 17, something is still searching.
I come out in the morning and find… silence.
It’s not only the lack of birds, it’s the dearth of murmurs, gurgles, and splashes. I look in the pond and the fountain is tipped over. Sunk. I reset it.

The next day: the same.

I get a new solar fountain. A floating one.
And then… it’s gone.
No. It’s no longer floating.

Upside down, below the cloudy surface. A few feet away from it, the flotation that has been ripped out.
Scratches, from teeth… or claws.
I don’t want to inspect too closely.
A small piece is missing.
But only a small piece.

Reassembled.
Put it in motion.
Not under the illusion that this is over.

A circular floating fountain lies upside down and partially submerged in dark, murky water inside a round basin. Its broad, translucent gray-brown disk is covered with water, debris, algae, and reflections. A small rectangular label is attached near the lower center of the disk, and a black cable extends from its right side. Small pink floating flowers, twigs, and other plant debris surround the device. The basin’s rim and vegetation outside the basin are visible along the bottom edge of the image.

Something still comes in the night.
I know not for what it hungers. I fear it knows.

Planted deep in the fall. Methodical 6” squares, line by line, back-to-back days. Then I have a long wait. They sprout earliest in the spring. In early summer, scapes, cut and sautéed over weeks.

Finally the leaves brown and it’s time to extract. Now.
After such a long development cycle what could be the rush?
Biding their time, the old powers are ready to collect their tax.

As expected after extracting a few heads, I found one that is no longer complete. Gaps where cloves were ripped clean off. No partial cloves, ripped from claws. Just partial heads of a few cloves. Instinctively I know not to widen the hole, to search for what is collecting. I accept the pie chart of what is mine and the return that belongs to what waits below the surface.

I dig for back-to-back days to remove multiple loads. Dust the dirt and hang to dry in the basement. There will be a greater tax for every day I delay.

A pile of harvested bulb plants rests across a weathered wooden surface. The bulbs are round to irregularly shaped, with pale white, tan, and lavender skins mottled by soil. Dense, tangled brown roots extend from the bottoms, while long, dried straw-colored leaves and stems curl around the bulbs. A few green leaves remain near the top of the pile. The close-up composition emphasizes the bulbs, roots, and dried foliage against a dark background.
A close-up photograph of a dried garlic bulb hanging against a blurred, light-colored background. The bulb has layered, cream-colored papery skin, brown stains, and a dark cluster of fine roots extending from its base. Several long, dry, tan-brown leaves or stems curl around the bulb, while a rough, gray-brown dried flower or seed structure appears near the top. The shallow focus emphasizes the bulb and its fibrous textures.

Instinct inadvertently averts calamity.
The basement is dry, has surprisingly good airflow, and no sunlight. Bundled. Hung. It’s not simply curing. They add a layer of protection.

The house was constructed in 1911. After multiple tenants, a renovation extended the crawl space into a basement. Disturb the footing and it all comes down. So a new interior foundation was added three feet in.

Seems normal. Reasonable.

That three foot deep shelf between the walls has so much potential. Cover it up and the visitor’s mind will say: That is the outside wall. This basement is the size of the floor above.

However, connect to the old coal chutes and chimney, and now there is a path. A place for a creature to rest. A way to leave to feed. A tenant is a nice cover story and a source to feed in an emergency.

Unless that tenant hangs a spice from the ceiling.
A charm. Unknown protection. Creatures held to the perimeter.

Handful of tomatoes, a small zucchini: a nice day’s collection.
The perfect amount to formulate a meal.
Consumed. Evidence disappeared.

Thirty deep crimson cayenne peppers on the bush, a dozen more green only days away: a trickier story. Only so much evidence can be disposed of in an afternoon. They will start to soften, then spot and turn long before the final meals. Evidence of waste, a lack of appreciation for the planting, of care about water consumed during scarcity.

I slit the cayennes lengthwise,
peeling back the flesh.
One after another,
before splaying them over
the dehydrator racks.
A constant soft fan
running for twenty hours.
Then a few more.
Removing moisture.
Slowly. Completely.
Monitoring near the end
until they are dry, brittle.

A single elongated red chili pepper hangs vertically against a plain gray background. The pepper has a glossy, deep red surface with wrinkled patches, uneven contours, and a tapered, slightly curved tip. A long green stem extends upward from a dark, ridged cap. The right side of the pepper appears darker and shriveled, with several folded lobes. A thin, curved gray strand runs alongside the pepper on the right.
A close-up view of a clear glass dish containing a mound of coarse, reddish-orange seasoning or crushed food mixture. The mixture has an uneven, crumbly texture with darker red-brown areas, small pale tan pieces, and occasional darker flecks. Loose granules are scattered across the exposed glass near the top of the dish. The dish’s curved rim forms reflective arcs around the mixture.

Dried remains are more easily dispatched through a processor, powderized, jarred, and stored away. Out of the site. Out of mind.

click-click-click-click-click

Sharp and short.
A few seconds later, from a new angle it repeats.

click-click-click-click-click

I try not to imagine what it might be as I rest on the porch.
Later I hear it again, lying in bed.
And the next night.

click-click-click-click-click

From the porch, I look out into the night hoping, but also not hoping, to see eyes shine back. Under the twinkle lights, I don’t see what might be looking in.

A very dark nighttime view of a residential street. The wet pavement in the foreground reflects a bright white light, while a narrow sidewalk and grassy strip run across the middle of the image. A small leafy plant is visible near the center, and several dimly illuminated house windows appear in the upper-right background. Most of the scene is obscured by darkness.

click-click-click-click-click

I take a deep breath, drawing together all the courage I can muster.
Hand hovering over the light switch, I take another deep breath.
And another.
Until finally I hit the switch.

click-click-click-click-click

I see nothing looking back. The source is still a mystery.

click-click-click-click-click

Night after night.

click-click-click-click-click

The best laid plans.
In yard maintenance they scarcely do.

In the front, where it is noticeable, the grass gets long. I make a deal with myself: focus elsewhere, enjoy the garden, and when we are rehydrated, then you will drag a mower through this space.

But days become weeks without measurable rain. And yet… the grass keeps growing. When mail delivery passes through I see it nipping at their calf. Grains form. One neighbor and I are in competition with the longest blades on the street.

As the annual block party approaches, I realize there will be people in the street in front of my house. People I will be talking with.

The Monday before the block party I give.
I mow.

It’s twenty minutes, even on a hot day, barely a sweat. Now it looks good. Browning, like the rest of the block, but in the range of acceptable length. Slow mowing means recent care doesn’t equate to short grass.

I am fifth longest.

On Thursday, the heavy rain we need finally arrives.

The water fairies received it. A connection by the guild to distant lands. A call for support answered. Origins unknown.

A stranger in a strange land, its honks are out of place.
The other fowl on site are diminished by proximity. It towers over Plot 17’s other creatures.

The deterrent for the outbound ollas. All that power, yet its legs remain shackled.

The water fairies continue to focus efforts on the core sections,
but now intruders lack free run of the perimeters. Dire times call for enhanced security.

But one day you look carefully and that left shackle is no longer secure. A poorly made shackle, efforts to tear free finally paying off, or are these ministrations by another party? Something that wants access and makes a deal.

When the fairies aren’t looking, it stretches and scratches at the other shackle. Not broken yet, but slowly it works at it. Itching for escape, to outrun winter back to where it came from.

A stylized, long-exposure image of several pink flamingos standing together in a dark, leafy outdoor setting. The birds’ overlapping bodies and translucent motion trails create multiple ghostlike necks, heads, wings, legs, and feet. Their pale gray-and-black hooked beaks contrast with their bright pink bodies. The flamingos stand on a round, brown platform surrounded by grass and dense vegetation. A tree trunk rises along the right edge, and a muted gray wall or fence is visible through the foliage in the background.
A close-up view of a fountain’s rippling water surface during a rainstorm. The gray-green water is covered with overlapping circular ripples, irregular wave patterns, and scattered raindrop impacts. Reflections of the overcast sky and surrounding greenery create shifting pale gray, white, and dark green shapes across the surface. A small bubble is visible near the center, and a curved section of the fountain edge appears along the lower-right corner.

After so long — relief.

It is not the hours long torrential battering, the deep soaking flood that Plot 17 and the wider brushlands so desperately needed. But beggars can’t be choosers.

After weeks of not a drop of rain, barely a hint of morning mist or peripheral confusion from fog, there are thirty minutes of drizzle with eight solid minutes of shower. Miraculously the barrels are refilled. A day will pass without manual tendering of moisture. 

It doesn’t undo the impact of the dry stretch. Doesn’t take the region out of destructive drought. But for a few minutes a more magnanimous time is recalled. When an accidental splash of the watering can didn’t feel like a grave mistake. When each reservoir didn’t rely on compound security measures by the guild.

It stops too soon, clear that the moisture, and not the pause, is the blip. The relief felt now will degrade to ease in the morning, and the vibes will decay back into tense antagonism by sundown.

A dark, close-up garden scene shows numerous bright raindrops scattered across the view, with dense green foliage and thin branches in the background. Near the lower center is a small, shallow, round plate filled with water; its mottled pink, gray, and green surface is partially obscured by leaves. The dim lighting and wet surfaces create reflective highlights throughout the image.

A close-up view of a sunflower fills most of the image against a clear blue sky. Numerous elongated, pointed yellow petals radiate outward from a large, dark brown textured center that occupies the lower portion of the frame. The petals show visible vertical veins, slight folds, and a few small holes or blemishes.


I gaze into the deep, robust flair emanating out. Not caution, confidence. A sense of self that doesn’t require the gaudiness of red to stand out.

A siren’s call: under hypnosis, pollinators arrive. The masses subliminally directed towards the ambrosia they were intended to find.

A close-up view of a sunflower fills the frame. Bright yellow petals radiate outward from a densely textured central disk, which transitions from golden brown around the edges to a darker brown and black center. The flower’s surface shows many small, irregular seed-like structures and ridges, with a softly blurred background visible near the edges.
A close-up view of a dense cluster of dark purple-black, pointed fruits surrounded by green plant parts. The fruits are oval to conical, each marked with a small pale circular spot and covered in fine hairs. Around them are fuzzy green spherical buds and dried, star-shaped yellow-brown flower remnants. Bright green, hairy leaves and stems fill the background and upper portion of the image.

From the tiny florets a yellowish-green seed matures and darkens. Further down this cycle as the small rays brown and flake off, the natural bird feeder is exposed.

I monitor the buffet.

Throughout Plot 17, I see this pattern repeating. It is everywhere I look, replicating further into the periphery. Three distinct plants, varying in scale but identical in function. Seeing this day after day, I slip into madness.

A low-angle view of a field of sunflowers against a clear, vivid blue sky. A large sunflower with bright yellow petals and a dark brown center dominates the lower right foreground. Several smaller blooming sunflowers, unopened buds, green leaves, and slender stems surround it, with another tall flower rising near the upper center. Sunflower heads and foliage extend across the bottom and sides of the image.
A close-up photograph of several yellow daisy-like flowers with dark brown, textured centers among broad, overlapping green leaves. One large flower dominates the lower-right area, while smaller flowers appear near the top and lower-left edges. The dense foliage fills the background, with a few stems, buds, and partially opened blooms visible.

Tomatoes. Peppers. Zucchini. Collard greens.
Standard garden fare. It’s all so… drawl.

An eggplant, some raspberries and strawberries. I start to expand what friends and guests expect when I say I garden. Add a butternut squash, some purple beans and I am beyond a simple single planter. The garden is now part of my personality.

I just want to make it all more interesting. Goji berries and an all-consuming horseradish patch and now I have produce that few neighbors possess. But I want the visitor to pause in the presence of lushness. To be intrigued. To ask what some plants are.

Alien forms, weird for Minnesota.

  • Okra in greens and purples. Cones point skyward. Clip and eat while soft. Some escape notice and are allowed to harden to plant next year.

  • Amaranth, in pockets around the site. Deep red waterfalls flowing down. Shake for a drizzle of seeds.

I have them not in one patch, but here and there throughout the site. It looks like a take over. An invasion.

Finding these options, cultivating them, and losing control becomes my whole personality. This is a deep red amaranth yard, with okra peering out, and some other produce mixed in.

When the one grew so tall, so fast, I knew: that isn’t how it is supposed to happen. So now, I shouldn’t be shocked when no tassel forms.

A stylized garden scene shows a bright green corn plant rising above a dense hedge near the center of the image. Its long, narrow leaves arch outward, contrasting with the mostly desaturated garden surrounding it. A dark garden arch is partially visible behind the foliage, with climbing vines covering parts of it. Large, drooping sunflower heads and broad leaves frame the right and lower portions of the image, while trees and shrubs form a shadowy background.

It was when the ten others, of varying heights, also had no tassels, no ears, no silk.

Two separate areas, both yield nothing but green leafy stalks. Knee high on time. Over watered through drought? Light browning, but lush green. That doesn’t seem right.

A miscalculation in the companion planting? A nitrogen deficiency produces lush green that devolves to yellowing? A full season lost.

Losing all the corn, all the pumpkins: a lack of attention, failure in planning, or is something targeting the edges, east and west, of Plot 17? Making incursions, attacking the weak points. Slicing the perimeter. Claiming the edge, claiming a buffer on the extremities, while pushing me deeper into my box. Thriving beyond where the fairy coalition can maintain its defense. When maintenance is lacking from an absent caretaker.

What wants to be won’t be stopped. Can’t be.

Elderberry canes rise, finding a path through to sunlight. Reaching through a canopy when the opening is offered. Under the deck rail and the bench when the path is less clear. Between two boards in the rail joint if that is what it takes. It doesn’t hesitate to separate this connection, to pry its way through. These things don’t.

Grow.
Spread where necessary to reach further.
Flower, fruit if necessary, and spread seeds.
Expand until something pushes back.
Try again. Keep trying until the resistance relents.

Survival, replication, site dominance. This is the goal of everything on Plot 17. When parties are in equilibrium, the constant push means very little. However, when a caretaker is no longer keeping balance and there is a shift in power, the lines are more apt to change. Agreements are invalidated.

It’s not that what once was isn’t anymore, it’s just different.
Maybe in line with what it once was.
Otherwise a wholly new extreme.

A weathered wooden deck is surrounded by dense green vegetation, with elderberry bushes growing through and alongside the deck railing. The deck boards run vertically through the image and show prominent grain, cracks, and darkened wear. A rustic wooden railing extends from the upper right toward the lower right, partly enclosed by numerous slender woody stems and broad green leaves. Two potted plants sit near the back of the deck, while a small uprooted plant with exposed roots lies on the boards near the center foreground. The background is shaded and heavily covered with foliage.

I don’t have a specific plan, just know what has to be done. This bush has spread over and through the deck, further each season. Picking the berries was easier, so I was slow to notice the change. 

I need to refinish the deck and it is with powerwasher in hand that I am forced to confront the changes:

  • Half the bench has been yielded to branches and bushels. Sitting has been relegated only to the end, and even then you’re at the generosity of the bush to not give a push. 

  • A whole corner of the deck now is under a canopy. Cast in shade, only accessible at a squat. Left in a poor position to confront what might wait below.

  • The structure is being eased, pried apart. It is a slow, steady push to separate the rail. Elsewhere a crossbar has fallen away. Piece-by-piece I have allowed the elderberry to begin deck disassembly.

A close-up view of weathered vertical wooden deck boards shows a narrow, irregular split between two boards. A cut elderberry cane protrudes diagonally from the split near the lower-left area, while dark green leaves and additional plant stems are visible through the opening. The wood has gray-brown tones, visible grain, cracks, and worn edges.

A saw and blind discompassion is what is required. Every cane of an elderberry I remove is a loss of future berries, but that is not today’s concern. The bush has shown new canes will rise no matter what. Pruning is too measured a term. Lopping. Hacking. Cleaving. Heartless removal, to reclaim this dais.

A sunny afternoon at the end of summer. 
Lounging out with guests. Admiring what has grown.
Sharing stories of here and everywhere: laughs, success, and what is confounding. 

As the sun starts to set, cricket sounds slowly rise. The signal to retreat inside under the guise of dinner being ready. Huddle in the light. Extend the conversations. Enjoy time together. 

Avoid what roams in the night. 
Searching Plot 17 for a, so far, elusive taste.

Two rectangular flatbreads sit side by side on a dark plate. The left flatbread is topped with pale yellow chunks, crumbled white cheese, and scattered nuts. The right flatbread has melted white cheese over roasted vegetables, including red tomato, green zucchini or pepper, and browned pieces. The toppings appear glossy and lightly roasted, with irregular edges and browned spots visible on the flatbread crusts.
Two simplified iconic illustrations side by side on a white background, each representing one of the water fairies of Foster's Addition, labeled in formal serif text beneath. On the left, Sola Thorn is represented by a stylized emblem: a magenta oval form at the center, suggesting an olla, topped with a small teal flower. Radiating outward from the oval are splashes of bright blue water drops arranged symmetrically like wings or a crown. Below the oval sits a dense arrangement of flowers in orange, red, and yellow — peonies and marigolds rendered in flat bold color. The overall composition reads as a heraldic device, a coat of arms for a water fairy whose domain is bloom and irrigation. On the right, Maren Still is represented by a stark, minimal emblem: two large bold magenta butterfly wings rendered in flat graphic stripes, spread wide and powerful. At the center where a body would be, there is almost nothing — only a long gray spear oriented vertically, and just above it, two tiny blue eyes rendered in fine detail against the white space. The eyes are the smallest element in the composition and the first thing the eye finds. The wings have no body between them. Just the spear and the eyes. Together the two icons suggest very different kinds of guardianship. Sola's emblem is full, layered, abundant. Maren's emblem is absence with a weapon.

Recorded Here
for the Unlucky

The fairies of Plot 17 watch over this record.
Would be thieves: they will know.
Your produce rots by morning.
Dreams of horrors you can't name.
You leave home and walk in circles:
close enough to see where you're going,
never arriving.

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