No go, beyond some speculation about the 15th Century and various historical associations the birds have suffered, for instance, death. Poets, you know, ever-observant to a cloud-filled sky that suits a mood, along with everything else to build a few stanzas around a love gone too soon. The crows surely mock the self-absorbed.
So, I have added to the cliché.
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One pristine apple among the scabbed; a dozen plums within reach; and, two pears that might ripen and then be worth pealing. The wet spring.
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One gopher trapped.
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A fire in the wood stove.
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We had a bit of sun today. Enough to take the camera outside as I thought I might muster a watchful eye. To-do took a while and clouds began to gather, so I decided to expedite a project to take advantage of the light that may not be available for some weeks again, and in that way I could use the camera during a chore. A chore of sorts in that I did manage to sweat a little and it was something I would eventually have to do even though it served no practical purpose.
None of these are edible. Rather, I have no desire to cook any, the appearance of many akin to decorative gourds rather than the winter squash from which they are hybrids. This anticipation of foulness comes more from belief than experience (although one of the parent squashes are my favorites*) and a little research shows that I may be mistaken. Still, as many, I am afraid of some things of which I have no direct knowledge. Besides, I know neighbors who adorn their porches with such this time of year and the will be glad to have them. That said, I must admit some curiosity, so stand by.*
Fishing this Thursday. Salmon are running.
*A point of clarification: The back row of yellow squash were grown and have been stored since last year. They are one of the parent fruits. Amazing keepers, but not my favorite.
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