If there is anything in the world better than living steps from Prospect Park, I can't imagine what it would be. Yesterday was just right, not the hallucinatory false-summer of Monday's 86-degree madness--but warm enough to release the fragrance of the falling magnolia blossoms, something like triple-milled lemon-scented French soap. Here is a portal to the Hill Kingdom north of the Lake, a rise visible from our topmost windows.
Yesterday was some sort of Redwing Blackbird Festival; I have never heard or seen so many of them, their exuberant metallic squee-graaaaack bouncing in chorus from tree to reed thicket and back again. They seem to know how gorgeous they are. Here's one I captured; I'm no Rob J yet, but I'm proud that the red wing is visible!
Apparently, there are two pairs of swans in the lake this year. One pair was chilling on the shore, grooming and loafing around. They are only ballerina-ethereal from afar; up close, they're palookas. This snoozing guy let me stand a foot from its breast and barely shot me a glimpse as I backed off. (If my neck were that thick, I would feel safe sleeping in the park, too.) Wouldn't it be great to be able to use your own back as a pillow?
After this past warm weekend, the park was awash in still-uncollected litter. One pile of leavings delighted me, however: this midden of rather pricey-looking sweaters, abandoned by their wearers as they arose in the Rapture of Spring. Time for bare skin against the breeze!
Peter, however, got up and ran to the tomb. He stooped down but could see nothing but the wrappings. So he went away full of amazement at what had occurred. -- Luke 24:12