A Fine Misted Bead

Wandering from the park's gravel path into the neighborhood botanical glasshouse, the humid warmth greeted my steps. Along a low zinc potting bench, an automatic overhead nozzle let out a brief, soft hiss, coating a broad waxy monstera leaf in tiny spheres of fog. I stepped closer, letting the rubber sole of my blue clog settle against the cool damp tile. With the side of my arm, I carefully lifted the drooping stalk just enough to tilt the leaf. The tiny scattered droplets rolled toward one another, gathering into a single heavy sphere before gliding smoothly down the dark green spine.