It's nice. Warmish to chilly, not cold and not hot, ideal for the bloom of Trees of which there are still a great many around here, where the majority are blatantly preparing to do what we human beings have learned to do in a more private, coded and altogether less theatrical setting before attempting to convince ourselves that the future belongs to the off-spring and entail of grunts and groans, even if the little goblins do terrible things in the Grocery Store and generally inspire intense disappointment in the truly objective observer.
The children of trees are pretty much on their own from pollen to firewood, and
while there may well be those who prefer not to think of Trees as producing
children, the great plants have nuts, or wing-dings rather than kiddies, Whales
have calves and so on, my own preference is to think of all living things as
producers of child, however odd looking those children might be. And if you wish
to know why, it's the anti-hall-monitor that courses through my veins. Call them
Baby Ducks if you have to.