There is something unidentifiably scrumptious about a day like this one. The air is brisk, the sky slightly fogged but simultaneously emanating sour sunlight through the crevices of the overhanging mist. Ample beads of dew rest themselves within the folds of leaves, each lying soundly against the creases of breathing vanes. The word that has inhibited my not-so-somber eyes seems to be exhaling, releasing a breath of sweet relief in the form of etudes sung by blushing beaks. It is an odd feeling indeed to be amid a state of such complete rest, such contentment and pleasure. Even the Cardinal, his deliciously flaming feathers neatly smoothed into place, graces me with his presence on a ledge of bread crumbs. A peculiar feeling, it is, to be situated in such an ordinarily dismal setting that has begun to come to life again. I can’t quite say why it is that the summer always seems to resurrect my backyard—to burry deep under the soil that has lain in restless slumber whilst the leaves had died, and bring with it upon its return the scents and temperate airs that arouse a convivial manner in such ordinarily bleak people. I think it is the patches of light—perhaps scattered on the floor Venus—that provokes a desire to go romancing in the grass. It is also the blithe and balletic movements of the trees, each mangled branch intertwined like the fingers of long-lost lovers. Is June not, in a way, similar to first love? The sweetness of the planet’s breath certainly matches that of a summer romance whispering senseless words of devotion. There is, in fact, a fantastical quality to this becoming girl Summer; she carries with her an air of coyness whose presence is nearly unworthy of note until you awake one morning to find yourself caressed in her arms.