When we first arrived here to live, time flowed in a leisurely fashion, revealing, at a measured pace, the changes of the seasons. We watched flowers unfurl and mangoes ripen and butterflies become swarms and then disappear. Now after four years, one day we go for a walk and see the red floral tubes that go into scrambled eggs litter the ground one day and evaporate the next. And I still can't remember their name.
On the other hand, the swifter passage of time has its rewards. This year fog and its accompaniment, the light, steady drizzle called chipi-chipi push into the end of March. And we have discovered a flower bed in which I planted tiny bits of root three years ago has, with benign neglect, turned into a ginger field. When I planted the ginger, I couldn't imagine such a thing.
Today we took the dogs for our favorite walk, the way softened by fog and chipi-chipi. The edges of the road were lined with tiny flowers, the names of which I don't know, but I recognize them: the very tiny, yellow daisy-shapes, the rose-colored droplets, the fuzzy blue balls, the tiny, perfect, purple stars.