Not the most perfect day, but perfect enough. Upper 50s, moderate wind, SSE or SSW. Mostly sunny, though with high cirrus coming in after noon, washing out what little vibrance there was. Glass high, but dropping.

Perfect enough, however, for bikers and motorcyclists, jogggers and dog walkers, swingers and sliders. And for us—explorateurs—for whom it was Bark River. We brought the camera in spite of the fact that now is perhaps the most drab and colorless time of the year.

Whitewater creek runs into the Bark, and the Bark joins the Rock in Fort Atkinson (and The Rock joins the Illinois, and the Illinois joins the Mississippi, and so the water we walked beside ends up in the Gulf, which is the source of the world's finest oysters). And the long but narrow riverine park running for a mile or more along its bank is lined with red dogwood, ash, willow, and alder.

The flooded Bark.

Willow.

Frog...freshly released from five months locked in frozen mud...sitting in a patch of sun, completely intert but waiting to warm and revitalize.