This is the view from outside my window. Intersting turn of weather for this time of year, but typical for the area.
http://i252.photobucket.com/albums/hh34/Molly_Wens/March09.jpg
....my sweet hopeful crocuses are covered in snow, looking at me like WTF?
-looks outside- Hmmmm 71, partly cloudy, lil bit of wind
Joins you in the
-looks outside- Hmmmm 71, partly cloudy, lil bit of wind
Just a bit SW of you and it's sun clouds and mid 60's
my mountains.
LOL he didn't run fast enough or invest in a cup
Daytime temps are getting to the comfortable, open-the-windows range. Nights are still dipping into the upper 30s. The delta is making the frogs fuck-happy and the underbrush bud.
The forsythia is beginning to bloom and will be at its riotous peak in less than a week, followed immediately by the wild dogwood that glows white-green at dawn and dusk, so much prettier than the cultivated variety. The industrious carpenter ants are marching in search of a place to build their summer encampment. I refuse to surrender my kitchen, not even the dark damp space behind the Bunn, not even if they promise to leave the oat bran alone.
The birch and maple look like they have a 5 o'clock shadow of pale green stubble, but the stubborn oaks are holding out for a few sunny days in the 70s before they concede winter's passage. Fitting, since they're the last to let go in the fall. The curmudgeons of deciduousness. The pines, ever envious that they have no spectacular seasonal displays, are preparing to throw a heavy pollen tantrum that turns the storm water run-off into a piss & cinder soup.
The kids are already pestering to wear shorts and sandals, and the first notes of the weekend lawnmower symphony have been heard, although the blades aren't yet giving up their greenscent nor is the wild onion yet carried on the breeze.
The back meadow is almost ready to burst into a viney, wildflower extravaganza. It was cleared last fall, so while the deer are thrilled, the snakes and frogs and small furry critters are vulnerable to the red-tailed hawks that swoop from one side to the other, occasionally snagging a meaty treat.
And the storms. I adore the storms.
I
Daytime temps are getting to the comfortable, open-the-windows range. Nights are still dipping into the upper 30s. The delta is making the frogs fuck-happy and the underbrush bud.
The forsythia is beginning to bloom and will be at its riotous peak in less than a week, followed immediately by the wild dogwood that glows white-green at dawn and dusk, so much prettier than the cultivated variety. The industrious carpenter ants are marching in search of a place to build their summer encampment. I refuse to surrender my kitchen, not even the dark damp space behind the Bunn, not even if they promise to leave the oat bran alone.
The birch and maple look like they have a 5 o'clock shadow of pale green stubble, but the stubborn oaks are holding out for a few sunny days in the 70s before they concede winter's passage. Fitting, since they're the last to let go in the fall. The curmudgeons of deciduousness. The pines, ever envious that they have no spectacular seasonal displays, are preparing to throw a heavy pollen tantrum that turns the storm water run-off into a piss & cinder soup.
The kids are already pestering to wear shorts and sandals, and the first notes of the weekend lawnmower symphony have been heard, although the blades aren't yet giving up their greenscent nor is the wild onion yet carried on the breeze.
The back meadow is almost ready to burst into a viney, wildflower extravaganza. It was cleared last fall, so while the deer are thrilled, the snakes and frogs and small furry critters are vulnerable to the red-tailed hawks that swoop from one side to the other, occasionally snagging a meaty treat.
And the storms. I adore the storms.
I
You do realize we're sending the yuck your way, right?
Daytime temps are getting to the comfortable, open-the-windows range. Nights are still dipping into the upper 30s. The delta is making the frogs fuck-happy and the underbrush bud.
The forsythia is beginning to bloom and will be at its riotous peak in less than a week, followed immediately by the wild dogwood that glows white-green at dawn and dusk, so much prettier than the cultivated variety. The industrious carpenter ants are marching in search of a place to build their summer encampment. I refuse to surrender my kitchen, not even the dark damp space behind the Bunn, not even if they promise to leave the oat bran alone.
The birch and maple look like they have a 5 o'clock shadow of pale green stubble, but the stubborn oaks are holding out for a few sunny days in the 70s before they concede winter's passage. Fitting, since they're the last to let go in the fall. The curmudgeons of deciduousness. The pines, ever envious that they have no spectacular seasonal displays, are preparing to throw a heavy pollen tantrum that turns the storm water run-off into a piss & cinder soup.
The kids are already pestering to wear shorts and sandals, and the first notes of the weekend lawnmower symphony have been heard, although the blades aren't yet giving up their greenscent nor is the wild onion yet carried on the breeze.
The back meadow is almost ready to burst into a viney, wildflower extravaganza. It was cleared last fall, so while the deer are thrilled, the snakes and frogs and small furry critters are vulnerable to the red-tailed hawks that swoop from one side to the other, occasionally snagging a meaty treat.
And the storms. I adore the storms.
I
With her, do you think it's possible to run fast enough or that a cup would really help
You do realize we're sending the yuck your way, right?
~Sticks tongue out~It's 80 degrees and partly cloudy...had rain earlier...a nice, gentle rain that lasted an hour...we sure needed it. The trees and bushes are budding out something fierce, the grass is growing and the flowers are already in glorious profusion. On the flip side, it's already humid and the insects are making themselves known.
The ospreys are nesting again across the street, the painted buntings, cardinals, thrashers, catbirds, et al are mobbing the feeders and mama armadillo showed up last evening with two little ones.
Ah, Spring!
East. ~Nods~
