A towering tree is flowering on some branches, with groups of snow-white blossoms, and dead in others that show not a trace of green or white.
A bird flits by. Too large to be a songbird, though it's hard to tell its precise size against the sky, with points of reference utterly gone. Crow-sized, maybe, but the head is odd, and wrong, and -- a wood-peckers. As soon as I think of that, it's all clear.
One tree is full of green leaves. Above it, where the root stock had put out new trunks, the spreading boughs are thin with leaves and putting forth stray delicate white flowers.
Tulips do not open but ripen -- the petals are green and turn color. One, a streaked one in orange and red, is for a time orange and red and green in flecks like an opal.
The hills are a patchwork, pale green, dark green, yellow (greenish yellow), a pale dunnish brown, a reddish shade, and that's before the patchwork of sunlight and cloud shadow lies over them all.
Still spring, the leaves are growing and green but the sunlight still shines through and illuminates them all, though they are darker in places where the leaves overlap.
The lithodoria overwintered, and though the branches and leaves are scraggledity, the flowers ahve started with their intense blue.
In between aging and cold, a pink tulip has become variegated, shading from white through pinks to a deeper pink than before.
Swiftly the leaves grow. Soon the trees are darkly shadowed in their heart, whether green or (for some maples) a deep crimson red.
A bird stand silhouetted, black against the bright gray sky, and it can not be a peacock and because its tail, though it would be minimized from this angle and in that superior pose. A wild turkey, of course. It moves about and struts and briskly crosses the road in the most arrogant manner.
The sweet scent on the air betrays the lilacs before their purple flowers are spotted.
There are trees just now, and with obvious reluctance, putting out the first pale leaves when all about the trees are lushly green.
When looking down into the valley from the sloping road, all is green. Much still a pale green, with the conifers sharp and darkly green among them, but much architecture is veiled from view.
All at once they bloom, another lithodoria in pale blue, the sun rose in brilliant orange, the flax in another pale blue, the lilac in yellow -- often without my noticing the buds. And then the blue-eyed grass, with its pretty if purple blooms. The poppies follow, but their rotund buds are so large there is no chance I will miss them.
A marvel of green and misty gray on a rainy day. Here and there you can see white daisies and yellow wild mustard, but the day mutes the colors, even the orange rhododendron. In the garden, many of the flowers are bent over from the weight of the water, and others do not open because it is too dim for them to know it for day.
Nuthatches and mourning doves and even robins, pecking the ground together, are all a subtle harmony of browns, but the grackle intrudes, first in its dingy black, and then, when the light catches it, its iridescent blues and greens.
On a gray day, the trees are thick and green before me. Abruptly, a cardinal, pure red, darts across the scene, the most vivid of contrasts.
A robin is hopping about the lawn, its belly a little dim, its back a bit freckled -- and it hops up to another robin and opens its mouth in the universal avian signal for "Feed me!"
A heron flies, high up in the sky, distinguishable from a raptor by its steady beating of wings.
The pond is all but overgrown. All over it, the little round ripples burst out from where a fish feeds -- a small fish, too small and dark to be seen in the murk. Looking for them, however, reveals the all but invisible frog, dark, brownish, greenish, just hanging with its legs sprawling and its back and head barely above the water. It turns around while I am in the shop, which is the only sign of liveliness.
A jaunt down a back road goes past a little swamp, where irises are blooming yellow -- feral. Or perhaps wild, they are bright yellow but the flowers are not large.
How thickly the leaves have grown. The red-leaved maple is all but black with the sun shining from behind, and other trees are clearly green but very dark. Only one, its branches loose, still looks illuminated.
Little ripple circles on the stream where the fish feed. Sunlight shines into the waters -- not making a reflection, but making the little brown fish clear.
Two ducks by the streamside, both dark, one large than the other, which looks still a bit fluffy. Or fluffier? The other one might be a duckling mallard, too, both grown and nearly fully fledged.
Pond scum is floating in brown lumps down the stream. A shoal of fish is so brown that only its moving faster than the current betrays it, because only a second look reveals that they flit under the water. Among the many other fish, the sunlight illuminating it rather than veiling all with reflections.
The sky is filled with gray clouds, the raindrops have fallen now and again, but a rainbow arches down from the sky aglow with perfectly pure color.