At last spring has arrived here. Balmy breezes with temperatures in the 70s and 80s. The arrival of the scissor-tailed flycatchers in the meadow made it official. The week before, the cattle egrets showed up. And, my mocking bird is back with a repetoire of new melodies from some far off place. And, last Friday as we sat on the porch noodling with the dogs we looked out at the graden fence and there sat our little ruby-throat, back from Latin America and impatiently mooching for his feeder to be put up in the tree. As we attended to that, he buzzed around our heads like a bumble bee on a Saturday night spree.
Hummers are such intereesting little deals, they make these incredible 1,000s of miles voyages south each year to return to their same stomping (well buzzing if you insist) grounds each years. How they must get buffeted about, yet there they are each year mooching feeders with perfect equanimity.
We've had good rains this spring and the meadows, fields and pastures are lush. Our south pasture is like a pointilist painting, with crimson Red clover growing thigh high, scarlet Indian Paint push in with lavender Gentian, and several varities of smaller golden, white, and pink Clovers, yellow Butter Cups and Texas Star against against a canvas of bright green and tawny beige from the tall grass. Darting around through the field one can see flashes of black, orange and yellow from the Swallow Tail, Monarch and Sulpher buterflies.
Right now it is the sweet crepuscular time of day, the time Ray Bradbury calls the golden time, and the air is laden with the pungeant spicyness of the Wisteria and softly sweetly sensual almost female scent of the Confederate Jasmine. It is nice, and we're enjoying while we can, soon it will be Texas in the summer and blazing hot and staggeringly humid.
How's things there?
Hummers are such intereesting little deals, they make these incredible 1,000s of miles voyages south each year to return to their same stomping (well buzzing if you insist) grounds each years. How they must get buffeted about, yet there they are each year mooching feeders with perfect equanimity.
We've had good rains this spring and the meadows, fields and pastures are lush. Our south pasture is like a pointilist painting, with crimson Red clover growing thigh high, scarlet Indian Paint push in with lavender Gentian, and several varities of smaller golden, white, and pink Clovers, yellow Butter Cups and Texas Star against against a canvas of bright green and tawny beige from the tall grass. Darting around through the field one can see flashes of black, orange and yellow from the Swallow Tail, Monarch and Sulpher buterflies.
Right now it is the sweet crepuscular time of day, the time Ray Bradbury calls the golden time, and the air is laden with the pungeant spicyness of the Wisteria and softly sweetly sensual almost female scent of the Confederate Jasmine. It is nice, and we're enjoying while we can, soon it will be Texas in the summer and blazing hot and staggeringly humid.
How's things there?
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