Walking past the row of beans in the sidewalk garden when I left to pick up some painting canvases the other day, I noted one pale green loop raising its head. By the time I got back, the loop displayed an open bean and two robust young leaves. Now that’s moving, folks!
It’s too quiet. Has Lady Wren got laryngitis? Or is she sitting on some eggs and enjoying a well deserved rest? Lloyd thought he heard her singing at 4:30 this morning. Oh my. What’s going on around here?
I think Father Robin overheard my concerns about our quiet garden, and decided to do something about it. He flew up to the topmost tip of a tall but skinny spruce tree two doors down (the kind of spruce you see further north), and filled the air with score after score of thrilling music.
Enjoy Scott Green’s recording of an American Robin. Never mind the rude old dog that chips in now and then.
Often at dusk, Father Robin sings evening vespers, blessing the entire neighbourhood with his repertoire, ending with . . . And to you, a good night.
It was the flowerbed on the right side of the small steps going up from the pond that got some attention this morning. The first day lily of the season bloomed forth in solid gold tones!
During some heavy downpours of rain late yesterday afternoon, the roses gathered their gowns about them, and they seemed no worse for wear this morning.
I wish you could inhale the exquisite perfume in the heart of the white roses.
The red rose has no scent to thrill you, and I know that sometimes she struggles with an inferiority complex because of that. But I overheard her whisper to her sibling buds:
Never mind. No one has written a poem about a white rose,
but everyone knows what Scotland’s poet Robbie Burns
My love’s like a red, red rose!