Birds scattered the instant we set foot in the garden. The hazy light of early morning was warming to the idea of the day. Our hands, joined as they had been a month earlier in the cold, were knitted between us like a thick sweater. The unruly vines that lined the veranda still needed to be trimmed back; the weeds needed to be pulled from the path. It was chaos built on promise. Sex, and fruit, and fury, this garden. It was ours to tame. He had been raised in the bowels of an industrial city. I came from a sleepy afterthought of a town, apples and all. My musical background was honest folk tinged with occasional weather-driven hardship. His music, urban rock, was informed somewhat by the rough present and largely by the steely, blinking immediate future. Right now we listened to the silence broken by hungry birds and it suited us both.