We’re well past the turning point. Spring is gnawing winter’s bones; no doubt germinating is hungry work. The honeysuckle is growing again, the chestnuts smell like pipe tobacco when the afternoons warm up, cherry and plum blossoms are falling, the magnolias are shedding waxy petals, the hyacinths are in full vigor, the grass is growing again, so on, so forth. Every day brings new evidence that I’m not allowed to give up yet–surprising, as it is every year.
It’s only intermittently warm enough for bees; the weather nerds say that will change in the next few days. When it does, this bank of bluebells will be alive with subtle buzzing and several different species. Boxnoggin might try to catch one or two sky jalapeños, but while he is eminently equipped for the capture of, say, rabbits or unwary cats, he doesn’t have the depth perception necessary to grab a bumblebee. (He can’t even catch a toast crust on an easy arc, poor thing.) Which is all to the good for everyone involved, including Yours Truly.
I’ve a busy Friday–Reading with Lili, Friday Night Writes, and revisions–so I’d best get started sometime soon. But the coffee is hot, it’s not so chilly as it has been outside, and maybe I can take a deep breath or two before the ruckus begins. And maybe on walkies today we’ll meet a tiny new friend or two.
Not a bad way to end the week, all told. Off I go.