How green is the valley -- subtle shadings as the trees of different species -- with here and there a building towering -- and it looks all the more lovely framed in green as I look down between gaps in greens. (And how gawky my garden still. If I planted enough to prevent bare spots, it would be overcrowded in summer, I will just have to let it grow.)
The sun shining through the leaves turns the trees into a vivid patchwork of greens from brilliant to shadowy.
A tree is side-lit -- it has leaves of deep red -- but the light glowing through it makes every leaf as rosy as a flower, and all over the tree
A field is filled with yellow flowers, some high on stalks, others growing low in masses of green flower, and going to see what the mix is -- buttercups on the stalks with hop clover beneath, or marsh buttercups? -- reveals that it's all buttercups, above and below.
Roses, roses, roses -- roses all abloom over the park. A few are still budding, but you can stand and smell the sweetness, or walk and see the beds of pink roses -- pure pink, single or double or massively multifoliate -- or pink touched with yellow where the petals join the heart; roses orange and pink like the dawn but the orange fades with age so the older roses are purer pink; burning orange or a delicate pastel orange; purples both pale and deep; white as snow even where the petals fall; flaming red or a deep red that turns an antique shade as the roses age; a carnivalesque rose with white and red in streaks. But the gate covered with masses of yellow roses last week is now all green, with a last lingering bloom here and there.
A woodpecker perched on a bough of the tree where the nest had been, and looked regally to and fro.
Some cast a seed pack over a bank. One of the mixed batches -- very pretty, full of color -- and alas for me, the bank is just far enough away that I can be fairly sure that some of it is poppies.
Goslings, large and grayish, have been wandering with their parents. Now, they are still fuzzy, but you can see the black and white come through the gray. (And later still, you can just tell by the last fuzz on their backs, which are the goslings.
The Baltimore oriole flies through the air, all orange and black. Except that its wings keeping folding flat along its body in its swooping flight, streamlining and hiding the orange.
Flashes of brilliant red over the waters -- a careful inspection shows the red-winged blackbird, but the water is so dark from the reflection of the sky and tree already being darker, and the ripples adding shadow, that the patches of red -- and bits of yellow -- stand out far more vividly as it flies.
In the midst of the brook, a stand of rushes is more than a stride from the rest of the rushes, but growing merrily along as if it had a (submerged) islet of its own. Perhaps it does.
Look, a squirrel! I had started to notice it had been a while since I had seen a black squirrel -- they were, for a time, as common as the grey ones -- but there, in the green, is a black squirrel. (Not looking otherwise striking.)
The grass is so high that the geese it in are goose necks and heads, the only part that can rise above. The geese asleep are just a faint suggestion
Alongside the road a bird stretches its neck to look, and it looks like a primordial dinosaur-kin, not the modern-day turkey that it is.
Rains have returned, because everywhere the grass is sprouting mushrooms with their little brown caps -- some not so little, very quickly -- and in places, looking like an invasion of a crowd.
Clouds spread over the sky, some lowering, darker and closer than others -- and you can tell where, where the hillsides green shows a darker shade in shadow.
A flash of orange to one side -- a glance reveals a red-winged blackbird with an orangy patch as its wings arch to let it descend.