A dog who shared the name of every guinea pig we had growing up—so we wouldn’t know eventually how many had died, of course—-greeted me sincerely. Someone who shares my brother’s name hollered, “Leo! Cool it!” But Leo was an insistent greeter, simply losing his head as i pulled up to the campfire. Max introduced us and we quickly discovered that we liked to snuggle each other. Leo isn’t usually like that, Max insisted. We listened to music and stared at a massive sky teeming with stars.

The fire pit was new, i learned, and so would be the frosty morning. i was right on time. Out in the field i put up my tent, stubborn, and felt dreamily cozy in my qualified sleeping bag. In the morning the sun came defiant to sparkle all over the soft clover ground cover. i felt the whole exchange replayed between my warm covers and chilled face.

Peeking out my rime-flecked window i saw now five dogs roaming amicably in the morning sun, sniffing everything they undoubtedly scented every day of their sweet, simple lives. They all looked content, going through their morning routine together. At ease completely. i felt that, too.

i went looking for the outhouse. i found turkeys instead. Baby turkeys, one of whom i would later surprise myself by scooping up in my now-capable hands to toss back into the pen from which it had escaped. One dog came to see me there as i gawked at the Mallard duck-sized almost-turkeys, actually so cute in their weirdness. He asked for pets and i earnestly obliged, taking the opportunity to read his tag aloud: “Arlo!?” We both loved to hear it, and offered his rear for more scritches. i thought of my dog niece of the same name. There’s nothing like dog affection. There’s nothing like coincidence, either.

i met a boy who thought himself a man who thought himself a poet. He met my eyes and promised special words. He shared his art i’d seen before. Everything he said was cheap—that was how he lived. He admitted, as we laughed, that a year ago i would’ve hated him. He was right, i said, i’d have “eviscerated” him. This time i met him where he was, self-proclamation and all.

Max played us Murder on the Orient Express while we worked. Graham played DJ sets featuring live bands. A truly excellent combo, in my opinion. i learned some useful things about hemp, and temper. i learned i’ve become a better observer—there’s so much less to observe these days. i’ve learned to bask in the bliss of communal silence.

i ate sweet little turnips (!) directly from the soil. Max had worked the entire garden themself; i was beside myself with envy and curiosity. They showed me all the best things. i ate three little turnips with the quickness i usually reserve for fruit.

Ground cherries grow in little bustled, crinkly outfits like the Met Gala gonna be held under their leaves tomorrow. The palest ensembles are the most ripe, with a tomato texture and grape sweetness in a raspberry size. You crouch to find them and it feels like asking politely; i like to bow to fruits before i make them mine. There’s something precious about not being able to gobble them with my usual zeal; they need to be undressed first.

Sungold tomatoes are literally that color, and they taste like it, too. They hop right off the vine into my mouth! i only pause as their juices take over my senses. Does joy have a flavor?

How few vegetables i’ve eaten have tasted this good! Pesticide and capitalism free in every way. The distance from their rooted growth to my tastebuds is so brief i could cry.

If i concentrate while i eat these treats—and, admittedly, those of farmed flesh as well—the taste will pass my ecstatic palate into my tender heart spaces. It tastes like hope and ethical living. There’s hints of freedom and community care. The growing of things feels like a quiet and succinct protest. How the beauty of our world expands when we choose to have our hands in it! Each vegetable, and animal, grows toward the future. Each farm is full of tangible dreams.