Harvest sounds hearty, sounds sure of itself — sounds like the record, sounds like “Heart of Gold,” but even then, Neil sings that it’s the searching for the heart of gold, and the more I harvest the more I realize I am searching, it is work: it is being harvested by insects, poked by thorny leaves, discerning the green of a bean from the green of a leaf, determining the shine on the skin of a jeweled eggplant — it’s finding everything in its exact time, plucking it from this into that; playing god, obeying God; in service of the harvest, on my knees, leaning into the garden, really prostrate before the growth, in adoration of the land — I learn to reap without violence; listen without taking; I yield in more and more colors. Eat with the salt of each season.