It rains. Sporadically. One moment a mist -- or dry -- and the next great splotches of raindrops -- and within a minute, back to dry.
After dry days, a neighbor waters the plants of his deck. Two fledgling mourning doves take advantage and delicately drink from the puddles below.
The median is filled with the last summer flowers: thickets of Queen Anne's lace, delicate and white, with stands of feathery purple loosestrife and yellow goldenrod
Lightning comes so fast and thick that one can not be sure that it is close -- the thunderclaps might not be for the last one seen.
Against the dark clouds, two birds fly -- rock doves by their motion -- and one is brilliantly white, flaring as if lit from within. I have never seen a bird so white but do not know how mere contrast could make it so bright.
A cobalt blue cloud has rolled in as I ate. I hurry on my walk, and very odd it is, to be walking in dark shadow (the streetlight not having caught onto the darkness yet) and ahead the sky is delicate pale blue with wispy pinks in the clouds. Until the winds and the tossing trees have me cut across the block to end my walk early.
The snag in the stream is -- oddly shaped in the middle, like a turtle's shell, and there's a hole near the top like a nose. Half a minute's staring has a plop in the water, with circles rolling out, and it pulls down its head, which makes it look a little more like a turtle head and less like a log -- but it still looks predominately like a log, even as it moves.
The fish, lurking below the water, do not look like shadows. Instead, they look like elongated and surprising regular pieces of pond scum. (Until something edible came along. Too small to be seen from the road but they churned up the water going after it.)
A squirrel stands on its hind legs. A black squirrel. Except the coarse, outer black hairs are sparse enough that you can clear see the brown fur on its body.
A beast ambles out of brush: with a small, pointed head, and very broad stripes like cream down its back, the rest of it black. Several moments of watching have it only looking about, but giving it a wider berth gives it a chance to amble back, or cross the road swiftly, without my seeing it.
It is frustrating to see lightning from the window, again and again, for long minutes, and not a trouble. And on another day, rumble after rumble of dry thunder. It has, in fact, rained here several days, but the hollows where water gathers not only do not have puddles, they have only this last day shown grass greener than the rest -- the thirsty earth drank the water too swiftly even for that much gathering.
I have finally seen a tree that had moss growing on its north side. (Study trees for that, and you will find they tend to have none, or all about.) But that's the side that gets sprayed by the automatic sprinkler.
Something lurks beneath the water, but between the reflection and the pond scum, it is hard to tell whether it is a turtle or a stone -- that stretch of water not being committed to memory.
A grackle sits under the brush, on the earth of the bank, and catches the light just so. It is a mass of brilliant blue and purple, shifting with every twitch, and just a hint of the dingy black that pigment makes them.
Mist, mist, mist everywhere. I can see the row of trees that border the complex -- and it's a narrow complex -- but indistinctly, and beyond there is no sign of what stands there. Not a trace of hill can be seen.
The evening brook has a series of expanding ripples -- no rain -- and the fish are hidden by the reflection -- but there are a whole series.
Ravens sit under the trees, on the ruddy dead needles, and they are larger than some cats as they look about.
A shoal of fish sit, dark and utterly still, in the afternoon sunlight.
The dark blue sky has even darker blue clouds, tufts in long chains, and behind them, the new crescent is pale gold and elongated -- such a long line. Later in the evening, even the trees and the houses do not make it look as large (as they do -- because your mind compensates on realizing the distance).