Walkabout

Going out, yesterday, in between lovely storms blowing in and then blowing out and then the next one scuttling in, I decided to take a few pictures of what was going on out and about the place.


Here, we have the obligatory shots of the clouds. I am inordinately fascinated by them. Sort of like city folks who have a place where they can sit and watch what's going on in the street, below. Except quieter. And with more wind. And, I'd warrant, better smells. Except in manure-spreading season when the whole place smells like fetid cow waste. Hey, at least it's organic, right?

While the area under the clouds looks blue, it's really a deep slate gray. Something Wicked This Way Comes.

















Next, sadly, the fallen house finch nest. One egg, broken, still in the nest, the other, splatted on the porch, behind. Every spring, we've had finches nest there, over the light, but this year, the nest has fallen, twice, with all eggs lost. I'm not sure if it's because the birds are new at doing this or what, but it's rather sad. I like having the flurry of nesting birds outside the front door.
















Onward to a freshly dug ground squirrel hole, in probably the only bit of lawn that is not a solid mass of dandelions. Can't blame him for choosing this location, can you?

















And, now this guy, who is blooming on his lonesome by the path. He looks vaguely lily-ish but the stem is woody, like a sapling. I haven't the foggiest. Anybody? If you make it up, I won't know. Well, until I go look it up, of course, because I am like that. But for an hour or two, I'll believe any fabrications. Go ahead.

And, finally, as I'm sure you're all dying to know the state of the dandelions, now that 2 weeks have passed since that first cry for help, here we have the horror:

Sadly, It poured all last weekend and it's been about a week and a half since Charles mowed. Last weekend, it was a sea of white, sort of like Lilliputian gray-haired grannies were laying siege to the place. I sort of expected little bonfires dotting the yard at night as they laid their plans to march on us in the morning. Now, they are just 6-8" stems, all bald, from releasing the billions and billions of seeds to the winds. As Charles mutters, like a mantra, "It can't look any worse. It can't look any worse." We daren't show our faces out doors for the shame of it all. We are thankful that we don't live in town, for here, we only have one neighbor, who cuts his lawn obsessively. I keep hoping Jamie's sheep (scroll down to 5/4 and 5/1 posts) find their way here for a smorgasboard.