No matter how enjoyable the process of storytelling, not even pecking out patterns of words while chained indoors to a little electrified box of plastic and metal can trump the pleasurable sights discovered while strolling the streets of San Francisco on Easter Morning, led by my guide, Frisco’s own wise and witty Whitmore the Whippet.
I used to wonder why novelty companies never made hay while the spring sun shone to produce a line of Easter holiday decorations. If they could deck our front doors with boughs of holly and pine cones on Christmas, why not do the same with boughs of cherry blossoms and decorated eggs on Easter?
A walk outside answers that. Nothing even the sharpest manufacturing marketer could concoct could improve upon the finery offered by Nature.
And for some reason, this morning’s Easter walk with this town’s most celebrated Whippet (who I have the privilege of watching for a bit), offered a feast dominated by blues and purples. There’s always some yellow, red and pink poking up here and there but blue and purple is less common, at least it seems to me.
To one who knows nothing of horto, horta…horti...well, the science and study of species of trees, bushes and flowers, the impact is wondrous.
So much so that, at least for once, one feels compelled to drop any earnest endeavor to learn and remember the names and details of each colorful life form encountered to instead take it all in, concoct original names for each flower, plant or tree, and simply enjoy it. It won’t last. Nothing beautiful from Nature ever does.
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