REALITY?: Morning Garden

I work alone to music of the birds of early morning, their chirping sharper in the dampness still clinging from the night rain.  The soil is dark with wetness, each surviving weed a telltale brighter green.  The hoe cuts through the plane of solidarity of the earth, mixing it with air to swell it with importance for its summer job to nurture.  The mist hangs on my shoulders like  a shawl extending out into the woods beyond the yards like some great light mantila.  I listen hard and hear gorillas there.