Some might see the Azores, islands aboriginal and tending back to pasture green, as a perfect chance to return to the garden. The undeniable lushness, the backing track of cooing doves, the garden both arid for grapes and tropical for papayas.
But green is so restrictive! Here in Terceira, there is an excess of what human eye, ear and skin can take in. A more updated model would be a collage of a garden in constant becoming, where nothing is excluded from the party.
For what of porous black lava, off-black and red and gray as open sockets; what of the wandering mist in interior moonscapes, the headlike blooms on slim tall stalks? What of the green of geckos that rush through time like toy dinosaurs? What about white-washed cottages that speed behind us like white notes on a black page? Forests that are self-misting? Birds that swoop to open windows with their fright song, at night, confusing all categories of bird, insect, mammal.
And yet it is peaceful; I thought I saw the lamb lying with a lion (or maybe a faded watercolor, framed and tipped sideways above the cotton lace bedroom.)