The farmstead hums with the ardor of springtide. Farmers bustle back and forth with garden tools, realigning the soil to their liking, adding material to gardens, and dragging hoses across the first sprigs of green grass. They drop each seed with an invocation like children plunking pennies into a well, putting their faith in magic. The songbirds watch and warble from above, involved in their own plane of industry, propelled by the rhythms of seedtime.

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