What the land is doing in March.

A late mango that should not have lasted into March. A fern we do not have a name for. An hour that passed without us noticing.

The spring is louder this month. The gardener says that means the aquifer is full and the dry season is losing its nerve. You hear the water before you see it, moving under the bamboo. The path to the waterfall grew over again in two weeks. We cut it back by hand.

It takes a morning and it is worth a morning.

What is actually growing: papaya in absurd quantities. Lemongrass. Holy basil. Three kinds of chili nobody will admit to planting. The banana circle behind Palm House put out two new hands. The compost turns faster than we can feed it. The garden cooks dinner most nights now. The kitchen smells like a decision was made.

The birds changed shift mid-month. The morning chorus starts twenty minutes earlier and runs louder. A pair of hornbills moved into the tall tree by the gate. The neighbours say that is good luck. We are choosing to believe them.

We are watching three things. Whether the young jackfruit by the sala makes it through its first dry season. Whether the vetiver holds the slope when the rains return. And whether anyone can name the fern. Photographs have gone to three botanists and one aunt. The aunt is favoured.

If you walk it this month, go early. The light through the canopy before eight is a different country. The spring is cold enough to wake you properly.