Walking down Birchwood the day before last, May and I, out with Kittie (our dog) hooked up for a bit with Bob from down the street. Bob's one of those people who looks out over a yard of shoots and notices what's about to blossom, and on this day, looking out at the yard around Valhalla, Bob says, "Trilliums"

Just the way the tuning of the spring begins with the purple crocus that pauses with the conductor's tap tap tap with the first forget-me-nots, the spring overture begins with the violets, then the daffodils, and almost without warning like the shock-and-awe horns of Beethoven, come the trilliums.

duntdunn ... duntdunn ... baddabbaddap ... dunt

the white and red and the occasional hue of blue, by this time next week, to cue the first test-cast long-weekend of the grand opera of tourism season (aka 'Summer'), all hills in every direction around here will be a wash of trilliums.

There's another jem in the timbre too: The brain-matter grey morrel, one of natures finest wild mushrooms. Or so we're told -- while they show up right on their curtain call out by the trailer every spring, we've yet to find anyone confident enough identifying them to give them a pan-fry to see.

Donations of mycologist expertise are greatly welcome.