it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken
matociquala

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This morning I arose early, rode my bicycle up to Elizabeth Park (one of Hartford's community treasures) and went for a walk in the rose garden. Which is just about peaking, though with the exception of the trellises, which haven't bloomed yet.

While there, I stopped and chatted with wary geese and mighty-thewed goslings, said good morning to about two dozen of my early-rising neighbors (by ten, the park will be absolutely packed, this time of year), and wandered among roses dripping with color and scent.

I met with two single red-and-white roses I could not find names for (though I think one was Fourth of July and the other was a single shrubby rose, creamy white with a scarlet rim that faded into scattered dots on the body of the petal, as if it had been airbrushed on a coarse setting), numerous heirloom and test varieties (the test beds have something of the aspect of a New York subway car--roses of every size, habit, color, shape, and description jostle up against one another, competing for a coveted spot in one of the display beds). The names alone are a kind of poetry: Tahitian Sunset, About Face, Distant Drum, Glowing Peace, Daybreaker (there's a book title waiting to happen), Cherry Parfait, Hot Cocoa, Golden Unicorn--about 800 varieties in all. There were white roses with petals so dense and thick I thought of magnolias, and roses such as Shakespeare never saw in a lady's cheek.

On the way home, I saw a starling with a long yellow streamer of collected fiber trailing behind, on its way home to put the stuff to use. And I saw another starling, of which all that was left was a piece of one wing. (We have peregrines and red tailed hawks within city limits; frequently, I see a pair of red tails soaring from my front window.)

This is a particularly nice ride, because while it's uphill all the way there, there is the reward of the park at the top of the hill, and that means it's downhill all the way home. So every ride ends with the thought, "Well, that was  little too short."

Last night, on the way home from Glastonbury, I saw a great horned owl fly directly across the road in front of me, fanning her wings to settle lightly on an overhanging branch. I've seen barn owls before, but this was my first one of the big guys in the wild.

And what a sighting it was.

Fantastic.

Tags: quotidiana
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