A lone dwarf iris, blooming already, deeply purple.
The grackles on the dingy lawn and the bare branches, every now and again catching the light so their drab feathers are iridescent blue.
All of a sudden -- overnight, I think, since I drove by the day before -- all the willows are covered with the fresh yellow spring green.
The clouds are gray, the ponds below are gray, the leafless trees are a brown that verges on gray and all the scene is delicate, dove-like shades.
Pale gray clouds cast silvery reflections on the ponds below, and all the borders are golden from the dried marsh grass.
Sunlight makes a lone tree brilliantly red by the roadside, all the buds a gleam with light.
The sky is brightly blue, and the pond is so choppy that the lone and snow-white swan is surrounded by a deep navy-blue spread of water.
The lone dwarf iris is now engulfed with fellow iris blooms, and all about the neighborhood, in the oddest corners, crocuses sprout violet, dark or pale, and pure white as well, and bright yellow daffodils.
How my garden grows. To the dwarf irises, in their shades of pure purple and a bluish shade, are added a pale violet crocus, and bright blue scillia flower.
In the morning the sound of rain is indistinct, but clear enough. Inspecting the outside reveals -- snow. Patches on roof tops, along the tree branches, on the flowerbeds, even a little visible in the grass.
The tree is all subtle, delicate shades, blurring into each other -- gray and brown and pink -- because the buds are barely formed and still low on the bark.
The crocuses bloom, here, there, everywhere. A wide spread of periwinkle blooms in violet. One garden, down in the valley, is filled with scillia in full bloom, some more blue and others blue-violet. (The lone scillia blooming in my garden is in the lee of a statue, albeit a small one. Perhaps that affects how the other scillia are now sprouts.)
I walk by night. I hear a rustle in the dead leaves and grass, and pick out a rabbit scuttling a little farther way. Were it not for its movement, I might never have seen it, even with the white of its tail. A goose, hidden by the deep blue sky, cried off in the distance.
Pansies, being planted in the garden, include some that are limp if not yet withered. They get watered quickly, as soon as they are in the ground. Overnight, it goes below freezing, and the next day it snows, and as the snow gathers about them, they are far more lively and upright. The hardiness of spring flowers.
Cloudy day. Drab brown hills. Neither one darker than the other so they look pretty much the same shade and featureless. Even the nearer hills with red-flowering maples and
On the roadside, where maples are flowering red, one tree is flowering white. Or perhaps leafing. Were it yellow, I could guess at which tree it is, but whiteness (and the flowers being small like a maple's) leaves me baffled.
Scillia had escaped. Over a slope, here and there, it blooms with little blue stars.
A magnolia has begun to bloom, a few flowers, all pink but not fully opened, and the cardinal perching brilliant red on the tree.
Across the empty parking lot is a black beast, no feature visible. It has the shape of a cat, though a big one if so. Its head bobs a little. Going in and coming out finds it no longer in the lot, but it lifts its head to view those coming out.
On the road, the puddles reflect back a mysterious brown wood, with gray sky and the trunks of the trees.
Birds cheep and twitter and sing about the marsh, filling the air with a thousand sounds of varying musicality.