I chop armfuls of sunchoke plants felled by storms. I leave as much as I can to bloom yellow and happy.

The goldfinches are back, at least a couple of them — okay, maybe just one — after years of climate-change eradication.

There are frogs in the retention pond now. I hear them loudly at night when I ride my bike around the neighborhood and sit on the bench there to talk with my dad 900 miles and a world away.

There are pollinators. Not a lot. Not even enough. But more than nothing, and that’s something.

And so there’s hope.

Maybe not much.

But some.

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