It's a windy day here. And coolish for our area considering it's past the ides of May and all. The wind is blowing the pollen around in a mad frenzy. Not a good day for the allergic among us.
My toes are cold.
Boy, I can remember mid-Mays around here when you could fry and egg on the sidewalk it was so hot, but not this year. I don't trust the weather, I just know one of these days, whoever is in charge of switch flipping in the cosmos, is going to flip his respective switch and we are going to fry and sputter just like a frozen hunk of meat thrown onto a grill.
I pulled up the sweet peas that were on their last legs because I didn't have the heart to watch them die a slow death. There are a few late bloomers left on the fence that are doing their best to get in a few more flowers before the summer heat gets here.
And I noticed that the rhubarb plants have finally decided to make a showing after a very slow start. I might get a pie out of them yet.
I bought netting to cover the blackberries and the peach tree this year. Yesterday I caught a bird fooling around in the dense leaves of the peach tree that is harboring a respectable crop of golf ball sized peaches. I will NOT let them peck away at my precious fruits. So our tree is getting covered tonight when I have help. It's going to look like a little old lady with unruly hair wadded up into a hair net, but I can't help it. aesthetics must take a back seat to juicy peach possibilities. Nasty Starlings. Messy, squawky, spotted things. Fie!
I don't care if Shakespeare liked them or not. I'll bet he didn't have a peach tree he was fond of. Poets. Bah. An impractical lot, e'en if I are one. . . I know better than to let the Starlings eat my peaches 'er they ripen!