A few months ago, some weedy plant took root among the exotic domesticated flowers in the bed alongside the driveway. It planted itself sparingly- seven or eight stalks came up, growing rapidly to a height of three to five feet. I let them be. Eventually, they put forth small yellow flowers, and insects buzzed about the tall, slender stalks. In summer's withering heat, the plants soon went to seed, their green parts turning brown, but still they stood. Now comes a gray day of scudding marbled cloud, no trace of blue in any part of the sky. The breeze rises, refreshing if not yet entirely cool. I watch the weedy grasses sway. Their heads bend half the plant's height to the ground while nearby plants barely stir. All the bushes sit stolidly unmoved, the gladiolus spikes show barely a ripple, and even the soft, yellowing leaves of the peach tree merely rustle a bit as they tremble in the gusts. But the unnamed weeds dance, bowing to one another and the garden and the humming pines, sweep from side to side, back and forth, as though hearing music to which the other plants are deaf. The pines and oaks hear it in their loftiest branches, though faintly, but near the ground only these supple weeds respond. I watch them, and the music is revealed to me by their pliant grace.