Who: Itzal Aiza and Open Where: Grounds When: August 27th, Afternoon What: New Students, means New Plants? Warnings: Ought to be Work Safe/PG
Itzal had overseen the arrival of new plants this morning. That meant that this afternoon would be spent installing them firmly into the ground. He was quite looking forward to the opportunity to get his hands in the dirt. The plants were quietly humming their song, and mix of fear, because they were not where they were supposed to be, and anticipation, because they knew they would be somewhere suitable soon. Itzal smiled, because the song was not a bad one. Most transplants were like this, unless they arrived to him in dire straits. The terror and distress of having been pulled from where they used to be had faded during transport, and they had all calmed down. If he had to call it any one term, it was much like they were in stasis, or going into hibernation. There was just enough to sustain themselves, and not enough to flourish, but plants were not pessimistic, they believed in soon. Every moment was now, and the future was soon. It was a good way to live, he figured, because it certainly meant there were less worries.
Of course, every plant was not the same. Weeping willows were constant worriers. And geraniums liked to complain, as far as he could interpret their music. Sun flowers despaired after the sun set, but rejoiced in the mornings. It was as if every time the sun set was the last one they would ever experience, because they had no way to know that it would rise again. There were advantages to being human too, he knew. As he marked the grass and moved the plants near their final positions, he hummed his own approximation of their tremulous tune. But one voice would never be able to reproduce the harmonies and nuances, and Itzal could not actually sing. Singing required an awareness of tone that his implant lacked. It had been so long since he had heard a middle 'c' that he doubted his own attempts came anywhere close.
The grass wailed as he dug it up, but Itzal only rolled his eyes. If he had to dislike a plant, and he really did not dislike any of them, but if absolutely had to commit to disliking one, it would be grass. Such a touchy, sensitive plant. And it thought so much of itself, preening when soaking up sun and water, as if trying to convince the world of it's greatness with how 'green' it could be. He certainly did not mind losing a bit more of the lawn for some diversity.