Sunday, always Sunday…

Bees among the catnip almost spent. What will that honey do? A tiny hosta continues to struggle in this inappropriate venue. It must be moved to the new wetland emerging from the pond downstream from the Arizona sycamore the Ranger brought to me.

We moved the eastern redbud back there last week, from its too hot, too dry, too sunny location where I’ve ceased to run the irrigation. It died back to the bone last winter, I thought it was toast, but it sprang back from the roots with half a dozen new shoots, yet struggled through the summer. Its leaves tattered from grasshoppers, caterpillars, some specific pest left its traces. This is where the hosta will go. The sycamore shelters a raspberry… lots of hard little cores tell me I missed more than a few raspberries this season.

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