Remember the sunflowers we didn't plant? The ones that showed up on their own, courtesy of some birds with excellent taste in garden placement? Well, the story has come full circle, and I need you to know how it ends.
The heads finally went to seed, so I picked them and set them out on the deck table to dry. That was the whole plan. Simple. Tidy. Sensible.
The birds had other ideas.
I came out to find the table looking like the scene of a very small, very enthusiastic harvest festival. Seeds everywhere. Hulls scattered across the glass like confetti. Both heads picked over with the thoroughness of someone who knows exactly what they're doing, because — and this is the part I love — they do. They planted these.
Think about that for a second. The birds dropped the seeds in spring. The garden grew them all summer. I did the heavy lifting of walking them twenty feet to the deck. And then the original farmers came back to collect their share of the crop. That's not freeloading — that's a harvest. They had equity in this operation from day one.
I know I'm supposed to be at least a little annoyed about the mess. I am not. I find it adorable. I stood at the window with my coffee watching them work the seed heads like tiny efficient machines, and all I could think was: I share this garden with some feathered farmers, and they are pulling their weight.
They plant. I water. Everybody eats. Honestly, it's one of the better business arrangements I've ever been part of — nobody's filed a single complaint, the payroll is seeds, and the whole team shows up early.
Next spring, wherever they drop the leftovers, that's where the sunflowers will be. I don't get a vote, and I've made my peace with it. Around here, even the birds believe in putting food by.
— Granny
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