OK...  OK...  I know it's not April, and I know the Middle English prologue won't make sense to some good people, but I can't stop myself...  When I came out of the Museum of Photographic Arts in Balboa Park today some young fellows were "maken melodye" so sweet that I thought of Chaucer and The Canterbury Tales and "ferne halwes" and how today a note from a special friend in a straunge stronde put such a longing in my heart to  "goon on a pilgrimage" that I stopped and got the images for today.

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote

The droughte of Marche hat perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

When Zephirus eek with his swete breeth

Inspired hath in every hold and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the younge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne

And smale fowles maken melodye,

That slepen al the night with open ye,

(So priketh hem nature in hir courages:

Than longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmers for to seken straunge strondes,

To ferne halwes, couthe in soundry londes.