Last we checked in, our rather heroic efforts at establishing a little beachhead of green growing goodness on our windy and wet wooftop had been woefully unsuccessful. The majority of the seedlings we lovingly raised from scratch had bitten the dust, or rather, the mud, unable to withstand the cold and rain that greeted them as they made their debut high above the tenements of Bushwick. As we surveyed at our barren buckets, it was hard to envision starting again, or ever getting anything to take.
But out of nowhere, a quiet refrain rose up in my head, growing louder and more persistent, till it was ringing out over the rooftops, ruffling the feathers on the pigeons roosting across the way, waiting for their chance to ascend into a swirling column of avian synchronicity.
It went a little something like this: