There were three working fields at the monastery: a large vegetable garden near the lodge, and two smaller plots down the hill by the dormitory. There was no power equipment allowed, so work was slow and exacting. Koi would work the gardens any time of year, pulling weeds and turning soil. In winter there were less weeds, and the roots could be extracted more easily from the wet soil. The ground rarely froze, even when light snowfall dusted the crops. Worms roamed freely just below the surface, so extracting a dandelion's deep and snaking roots might prompt a worm's evacuation inches away. Koi found fresh mounds to relocate the worms.
One autumn there was a visit from a foreign Abbot. He walked the gardens, stopping at a group of dahlias. He stooped for a closer look, then stepped carefully over the shortest stalks and knelt on the not-quite-dry soil. He gazed at a mound of earth and humus, perforated with tens of holes. The Abbot rubbed dirt between finger and thumb. He sat quietly a long time, and it seemed he really enjoyed the feel of this particular dirt. After a time he looked up and said something in Japanese, which Sensei later said was something like thanks for the worms. Koi stood, smiling, his spade gently swinging at his size, a little clear mucus on his upper lip. The Abbot tapped the mound with a dahlia.
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