Because our cool, wet weather has made for some dreary days, and maybe you've experienced some dreary moments too, here's a spring wonder from my native species flowerbed.
Meet Jack-in-the-pulpit. He's quite magisterial and likely belongs in a wizard's garden. The plants that surround him -- demure wood violets and fancy ferns, elegant irises and flirty phlox -- act as if they don't know he's there. But they know. Just like Transylvanian peasants know who's in the mountaintop castle that throws its shadow over their village.
Jack stands toward the rear of the bed, partially concealed by his own broad leaves. He watches and listens and keeps his own counsel. At night, when the whippoorwill calls, summoning toads and mice and beetles to hold congress at his feet . . . that is when the magic happens.
And I stay away.