The moon rises, and I see stripes through the stripes of cloud, and I think it is indeed a strawberry moon. (Less than a minute later, rising higher and escaping more cloud, it is a pale yellow, and somewhat later it is white.)
Little bell flowers are blossoming blue, and the pinks are a very intense pink, except that some of them are being bleached, the bell flowers to pure white, the pinks to all sorts of paler shades of pink.
A butterfly, yellow and black, fluttering over the flowers. It flutters for a moment over the coneflowers, and then flutters on -- to be sure only one flower there was in bloom -- but then it flutters over a mass of pinks, all flowering, and a stand of cosmos.
A black blotch on the deep trumpet of the large pink bell flower -- because a bumblebee stuck its head in, and the bloom is so big that it swallows all but the tail.
On the shore, the gaggle of geese and the paddling of ducks spread out. One is grooming itself, and it is the iridescent sheen of green that reveals that drab lump is a duck and not a goose. In the shade of a tree, another duck sleeps, its head tucked under so only a band of green is clear, but it shines in the shadow. Later, when a woman feeds the ducks and geese, the duck head are more blatantly iridescent than usual. Normally they just look green.
All the bee balm blooms at once. From one hour to the next, all the buds turn to red flowers. (And soon are thick with bumble bees.)
On the apple tree, clumps of leafs hang down, turned russet brown in their death from drought, and looking, at a distance, like misshapen fruit.
A critter is down the driveway as I walk by. The white on its head bifurcates and turns very sharply into two stripes down its black back. I can see clearly because it's turning about and looking at me -- and seeing me walk very briskly onward.
Of great annoyance is relentless thunder when you are pondering whether it is safe to go out and water your garden, not having gotten a drop.
A bedraggled robin sitting on a post looks very drab from behind -- the disheveled feathers and the hiding of the coppery belly makes it look disreputable.
On the horizon, a broad but short rainbow, very pure color among the clouds. For a moment it extends a little higher -- not much -- above a band of cloud -- but not long.
Thunder, when it comes close enough, rattles all sorts of paintings on the wall and knickknacks and other small objects. And is very loud.
Hop clover growing thickly among the grass -- much of it yellow, but some of the blossom orange, either from the drought or some mutation.
The rain passes close, very close -- close enough that I see the rainbow arching upward, a full quarter circle of pure and delicate color, from where I stand on dry ground.
Going outside into the muggy and cloudy day, looking north, seeing the rainfall mere yards north of me in sheets of silver -- and then I feel the drops and run for cover. I do not suffer more than a few raindrops of wet but it goes from not raining to whitecaps in the parking lot in less than ten seconds.
How blue the day is. Great billowing bluish clouds, with scraps of blue between them, and the rolling hills below with their greenery all touched with the blue light.
Mushrooms growing everywhere. Mostly small -- thus far -- both white as ghosts and pale browns.
Watering the garden and sending the spray up between the gap between the house wall and the towering bush there, gets caught perfectly by the sun. A rainbow spreads from one side of the spray to the other, and over it another rainbow, inverted, fills out a perfect double rainbow.
The hazy day muffles the valley, making the colors dark and gray. A building stands there, looking much like a reddish castle in fair weather, but today, it is a drab brown a shadow among the green shadows of trees, barely discernible against it.
How hard the wind blows. A bird hangs, a dark shape, high in the sky, its wings spread to soar, but it moves neither up nor down, neither right nor left, neither forward nor backward -- it just hangs there.
A good year for Queen Anne's lace -- great towering flowers of white lace. Some, I am sure, are taller than I am. The tiger lilies too, are thick in their feral stands of orange. Some are more fiery than others, though perhaps those are merely growing from a garden; they tend to be nearer to the lawns.
The day is sweltering hot but the turtles by the dozen sit on the stone in the middle of the lake, sunning themselves.
How thickly the flowers buzz with insects. Swarms of bumblebees and butterflies, honeybees and hornets on the yarrow -- I am not surprise to see that there are honeybee hives on the land.
What's with the wasps? Not swarming on anything, but so many of them buzzing over lawn and road.
It's July. The aster is blooming. sigh
Silly rabbit. I'm walking around the loop at the bottom of the road, and the rabbit is running along the curb for three quarters of the loop before it realizes it can dive under the guardrail and get away into the bramble.
The coneflower stand is bumblebee buffet. Every single pink bloom has a bee wandering over the yellow center.