After the campers leave, I slip into the garden with a headlamp and let the moon outline the silver whorls of the Martagons.
The air smells of wet earth, and the glow helps reveal slug trails before dawn when the rest of the team is still asleep.
I tuck barley straw under the newest crowns, reset the low-glow traps by the rock wall, and note every stand of dew so we can watch for damp pockets.
I still add my scribbled temperature logs to the staff notebook; the north-facing beds held just above freezing, so the roots stayed calm.
Locking the gate, I think about volunteers who will take over the next shift—keeping the moonlight calm is part of being a quiet guardian.