And so wraps up a season of growing in Amagansett.
A sea of buckwheat doing as it should.
Thick and flower full, rising three feet above the earth.
It's flowers give way to green and white seed pods which turn mahogany as they mature.
No weeds can be seen, or none seriously, under the buckwheat, and that is its purpose.
Yet only ground well tilled or disced and mellowed will allow the buckwheat to take hold.
Toward the end of my day of pulling potatoes and crocus, I stopped to take in the bucolic scene.
And the sun then set on the buckwheat, and on my field.
But before I left, the dew point shifted, the air then scented, and the clankery of aluminum batting adrift from athletic fields, as I plucked greens from self-seeded spring peas.