So far, at least, we’re allowed to go outside, and I’m not alone in taking advantage of this privilege. The sidewalks and paths have been filled with bikers and walkers and rollerbladers. Today I found myself in a different neighborhood for a Sunday stroll.

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.)