Driving home from work last night, there was a lovely picturesque fog covering the ground. I was hoping it was going to last all the way through to the morning, but it didn’t. (At least, there was no fog in town. There might have been some lingering on the river while I was walking up.) I was waxing poetic and extolling the virtues of fog and its effect on photographs while driving home and Lance, my coworker and carpooler; he wasn’t buying it.
So Jerry made a pot pie for Ivan last night for dinner. I have to sigh; Ivan’s appetite hasn’t been the best, but giving him something with a 37% DV per serving in sodium is NOT the thing to be feeding a recovering heart patient! Ivan ate every bit of it, though, and since his lack of appetite has also been a concern, maybe the good and the not-so-good balance out.
So all the yellow flowers I’ve been keeping my eye on, watching them grow buds and then bloom, gave me a surprise this morning. When the nubs of green turned into little yellow nodules, I thought that was their flower. Couldn’t really work out why the structure would be quite like that, with the flower stalks so tall, but the world of botany has amazing variety. And after all, in southern rural Minnesota there’s a roadside plant called Pineapple Weed that really does have a petal-less yellow nodule as its flower, so why not?
Well, turns out that on these, the hard-fisted stage of the bloom is only the start. Many of them are opening up tiny, thin petals, forming a daisy-like little lovely. They’re probably an aster; but I think i’ll have to wait, now, for the final form of the bloom so I can look them up to be sure!
Such a gorgeous day. The birds were singing their hearts out this morning. One at least was so loud he had to be right nearby, but I saw no bird-shapes in the trees, even after first light. I wonder how far their voices can carry?
I should start recording their voices and identifying them by their songs. I have to chuckle whenever I hear them, singing so loud and proud; I keep remembering a line from one of my favorite authors, David Eddings, from his book Domes of Fire: “The birds seemed to be everywhere, and they sang enthusiastically. Sparhawk smiled as he remembered how Sephrenia had once punctured his illusion that birdsong was an expression of a love for music. ‘Actually they’re warning other birds to stay away, dear one,’ she had said. ‘They’re claiming possession of nesting-sites. It sounds very pretty, but all they’re really saying is, ‘My tree. My tree. My tree.'”
They are beautiful, though. And I would miss their voices on these spring mornings, if they ever decided they didn’t have to lay claim to territory any more.