There’s a particular kind of sleep that waits for you when you’ve been outside working all day, especially in a garden: a kind of heavy, instant falling-off that nevertheless feels light, as if your sleep-sodden body might lift and rise at any moment and crack and sprout into something you’ve never known till then you wanted to become. It’s shot through with flickering images that sometimes cohere into dreams and sometimes don’t. And if you are sleeping on sheets that have been dried outside on a line, you may feel an extra lift and sideways drift to your dreams, some spirit of the light and wind that’s soaked into the soft roughness of the cloth that’s cradling you. That salty, sunny smell is air, it’s light, it’s spring. It’s the forward motion of the days that’s carrying you, too, on into the next day when you will wake up and go outside to dig your fingers into the soil again, when you will check the thin skin of green cells your baby lettuces and poppies (self-seeded survivors through the winter snow) have added since the last time you looked: reaching in their sleep, as you do, for the sun.