It's brisk, temperature in the 30s, but spring has sprung. The Bradford Pears are fully flowered, the daffodils are hanging on, and the forsythia is still sending its brilliant sprays skyward.
On this walk I found a swing and spent a pleasant few minutes pumping and flying, to the tune of Beethoven's Waldstein, third movement.
Right up the path is a little lake bordered by flowering shrubs.— and there, I saw a bird I think could have been a scarlet tanager. It was a red bird with black wings, and it was gorgeous. Maybe it was a tanager, maybe it was not.* Either way, it was lovely.
(*Reason I will never be a birder.)