The garden at river's edge

By the time I get to the river--it's a mile hike--I'm almost wasted. Thus, the angle here. 

That's not true. I'm just trying to be creative. 

Took a hike yesterday in an afternoon so divine you might well think the cosmos had transformed itself into the new heavens and the new earth. Once I came close to the river, it was apparent that I'd picked the right Sabbath for this little sojourn because the cottonwoods and the ash along the river were splashed with this glorious stuff--Dame's Rocket, it's called. And I'm supposed to dislike it.

I wish I didn't know that I shouldn't like this stuff-- hesperis matronalis, if you want to get technical about it. It's as invasive as the runny nose in a pre-school, maybe worse. But, my word, does a mass of Dame's rocket light up a river bank. 

Turnout was wonderful, but not extraordinary. Two years ago the flow of pinkish-purple made the river look shallow. They were everywhere, a Fourth-of-July celebration a month or so early. They ran in magenta mobs back then; this year they were only teams. But then, I may have been about a week away from full display.

People in the know about such things explain that Dame's rocket somehow escaped people's gardens, where they'd held down a beloved place for hundreds of years. These days, they're out of the closet, and down by the river, at least, they're legion. 

And, yes, they may remind you of phlox. They're certainly just as beautiful and just as beloved in the evening, when their fragrance is released (some people think they're an aphrodisiacs--and no, I didn't take any home). But to phlox they're no relation.

Anyway, the word is, they've left a thousand garden plots to populate places where wildlife carry their seeds along to unceded territories (or so the story goes). Yessiree, they're hearty:  those lugged-along seeds have no trouble finding a place to open up shop. 

I'm supposed to believe, supposed to testify, supposed to confess that all that blessed periwinkle is a plague, a creeping abomination. That's what I'm supposed to say. So I did, right? But it's oh, so painful, even for a Calvinist. They're just too pretty.

When I walked out of the trees, I walked through choruses of Dame's rocket all around, as if the path through the grass was a cathedral aisle. Honestly, there was so much color nicely scattered on both sides that I couldn't help thinking of a wedding. Want to avoid that huge flower bill for something upcoming? Just tie the knot at the river, surrounded by all kinds of trumpeting magenta.

Or, sad thought, a funeral. 

Right now, to sit in the company of all that color is to abide in a cartoon. They're not native, and they are invasive, but you're going to go under siege, you could do much worse than a big, bright battalion of Dame's rocket.