The tree tops are scraggly; brown and bare, resting in wintery doldrums.
While in the underbrush a chorus proclaims the coming of spring,
And Forsythia glows,
In a gentle dance of softened breeze and brilliant sun.
Usually, I’m biking when I’m here, so it was fun today, to wander off into the side trails and gardens reserved for foot traffic only.
It’s crowded, with bikes and dogs and children’s strollers, a city in thrall to a gorgeous Sunday afternoon.
But long, and winding, and mostly wooded; it was often as still as a woodland stream.
Rambling ... 