My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn
My last woody walk until autumn

Snakes, ticks and mosquitoes, among their many compadres, make it a necessity to keep to the well-groomed high ground.  Never matter, the garden will pretty up very soon and I'll miss little but the shade and little creaks of leaves and old wood, and getting up to those tiny flowers at the head of weeds, usually just a brush against my shin as I pass it by.  But they are pretty as they reach toward the filtered sun, like the fans of fungus and sticky pod, young bramble and mossy log, worth my notice.

The creek is high for all the rain, and the toads are blooming, as evidenced by my one muddy companion and the heavy echo of his kin through the night.  It's been a cool and wet spring here, but the usual suspects still make their rounds, as do I this last time for the while.

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