The return of the catbird
Jun. 9th, 2005 01:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pameladeanA week or so ago, I was out with Ari, and heard a house finch singing in one of the mulberry trees that line the northern edge of our back yard. By the time I had coaxed the cat in that direction, the song was a robin's. I never did see the bird itself, only the leaves fluttering here and there, but I did hear the finch, robin, and cardinal songs all break off with a vigorous mewing squawk, and then resume again. A few days ago, I heard the same thing in the mulberry sapling on the south side of the house. I am awaiting the two a.m. concert.
It has become summer. The mock orange and spirea are blooming; the lilac is almost past. After the cold spring, my peonies are cautiously opening their buds. When I sniffed one open flower, I got an ant up my nose. The daisies are blooming in the lawn. The dame's rocket is at full throttle, and fills the air with perfume at twilight. There are, inevitably, mosquitoes. The lawn wants mowing. The phlox has spread really tenaciously in the bed I put it into five or six years ago, and is actually giving the hairy bellflower a bit of a problem. On the whole, I don't have a garden; I have a hairy bellflower encampment punctuated with daylilies (presently putting up their flower stalks) and semi-wild rosebushes.
The Henry Kelsey lost a lot of canes last winter. But after Monday's appalling heat and humidity, a big piece of it that's still trained over the arch burst into bloom. The white rose of York is also blooming, and is thick with buds.
I haven't managed to put in any vegetables.
Also, I've apparently been complaining too much about my novel, because now I get to abandon it for a few days and write a short essay to appear on the inside back cover of the reprint of Tam Lin. On the whole, the novel is preferable.
P.
It has become summer. The mock orange and spirea are blooming; the lilac is almost past. After the cold spring, my peonies are cautiously opening their buds. When I sniffed one open flower, I got an ant up my nose. The daisies are blooming in the lawn. The dame's rocket is at full throttle, and fills the air with perfume at twilight. There are, inevitably, mosquitoes. The lawn wants mowing. The phlox has spread really tenaciously in the bed I put it into five or six years ago, and is actually giving the hairy bellflower a bit of a problem. On the whole, I don't have a garden; I have a hairy bellflower encampment punctuated with daylilies (presently putting up their flower stalks) and semi-wild rosebushes.
The Henry Kelsey lost a lot of canes last winter. But after Monday's appalling heat and humidity, a big piece of it that's still trained over the arch burst into bloom. The white rose of York is also blooming, and is thick with buds.
I haven't managed to put in any vegetables.
Also, I've apparently been complaining too much about my novel, because now I get to abandon it for a few days and write a short essay to appear on the inside back cover of the reprint of Tam Lin. On the whole, the novel is preferable.
P.
