I dreamed the cucumbers were singing in harmony

I was standing between the rows, barefoot, and they weren’t growing—they were humming. Not a sound like wind or water, but something deeper, like roots remembering a language. One by one, each vine lifted its leaves and sang a note, low and green, not quite tune, not quite meaning. I didn’t understand it, but I stayed anyway. When I woke, my hands were full of soil and silence. Still, I think I heard them—just below the surface—still trying.