The pipes were laid, and as soon as the switch was turned on, water dripped finely and densely onto every leaf.

The pipes were laid, and as soon as the switch was turned on, water dripped finely and densely onto every leaf.

The day the pipes were laid, you walked through the field. From one end to the other, the pipes lay along the furrows, the joints tightened, the sprinklers upright. You squatted down, straightened the last sprinkler, stood up, and looked around, knowing exactly what to expect.

The morning sun had just risen when you reached the edge of the field and turned on the switch. There was no roaring sound, only a soft hissing—water gushed from the pipes, drifted from the sprinklers, fine and dense, like a spring drizzle. Not a flush, not an irrigation, but a sprinkle; not a stream, but a shower.

As the water fell, every leaf stirred. The corn leaves caught the droplets, which rolled down; the bean leaves caught them, drooping wetly; the newly sprouted seedlings, drenched in the mist, stood up with renewed vigor. Both ends of the field, both seedlings, are the same; they all drink.

Standing at the edge of the field, you feel incredibly at ease. No need to run, no need to chase, no need to trudge through the water. The water flows on its own, sprinkles itself, and cares for each seedling. Those fine, dense water droplets fall precisely where they should, not too much, not too little.

The pipes are laid, the switch is turned on, and the water drips gently onto every leaf. From this day forward, your field will be bathed in a light rain every day.