A fortnight has passed without a park visit, while I hunker down beneath the madness of our Great Roof Replacement Epic. Yesterday, my painter friend, sensing an orgy of color nearby, dragged me to the Nethermead for a blissful hour of escape.
I like park squirrels; they do nice normal squirrelly things, like eat viburnum berries and bury acorns. Our house squirrels play bocce between the walls and "bury" half-eaten Jamaican meat pies on our windowsills, which I do not like.
A birder with a foot-long telephoto lens alerted me to the Blurry Bird of the Day: a Ruby-Crowned Kinglet. Had he ever seen their little ruby crown actually raised, I asked? "Only when they're really mad," he replied.
My vote for best leaf-peeping goes to the lake's south shore drive.
The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.”
girded himself, and o’er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
--William Blake, "To Autumn"