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Could be the front lawn's slow metamorphosis itself into tomato central. Maybe it's the request that our neighbors save all their kitchen scraps? I'm sure it has nothing to do with rabbits, worms, fly control, or at any given time we could be found in our pajamas with cowboy boots and hats picking arugula seeds with a chicken on our backs who apparently has taken it on herself to sing the poultry national anthem at six in the morning.