In the gardens this morning we saw the first of the season's dragonflies alight on the blooming climbing hydrangea. And up high in the clear blue sky interrupted by a few bright white puffy clouds there was a large contingent of geese flying in formation across a particularly long cloud, their perfectly silhouetted forms a symphony of movement across the background of white.

We discovered that the tree peony which we were convinced hadn't made it out of winter to see another spring-time bloom had in fact suffered die-back, but it is courageously making a come-back, hard to see at first since it is surrounded by lilies. Good thing that old warning by seasoned gardeners not to assume too much and to wait awhile -- say for example, a full year -- before committing to removing a hardy performer from the garden.

The other peonies have set their blooms, countless buds on the many peonies that decorate the garden, and are set to fully open, while the tree peony at the front garden already has. One of our rhododendrons has begun unfurling its bright magenta blooms. The bearded irises are blooming, and the Icelandic poppies are set to bloom, as well; perhaps another day or two. The climbing roses have begun to proceed from bud to bloom, promising another spectacular show this year. All is well in the garden.

As for the ravine, well, the buttercups have opened their sun-loving blooms, echoing back to the sun that golden warmth, and the raspberry canes are in full, promising bloom. Enjoying this wonderfully bright and cool, breezy day in the ravine alongside us as we strode along with our little dog Riley in tow, were dragonflies, hover flies, damsel flies, bees and one very large Mourning Cloak.

A satisfying number of squirrels were out and about, mostly black, a few grey, and no red ones, leaving us wondering still what has become of them. We were surprised to see Stumpette, have wondered too where she has been of late; likely sitting in her nest with the latest crop of baby squirrels. She isn't nearly as bold as our old Stumpy, who we believe breathed his last a year ago, but like him she is absent a tail, and our granddaughter named her, we thought, rather appropriately.

I threw a three-chamber peanut to her, and uncharacteristically she sat there before us, carefully taking it apart to release each peanut from its chamber, and when she had finished, alerted us that she expected additional peanuts which offering we were glad to oblige with, since that is what we remained behind, waiting for, her signal. Reminding us of how often Stumpy in his turn, used to do that with us.