A squirrel prowls down the walkway, looking so feline that its fluffy tail barely betrays it.
To the east, as the sun sets, the billowing clouds are pink ascending into orange. To the south, the greatly large clouds rise up foaming and pure white, until the evening passes and the lowest clouds are tinged with pink, rising to orange and then yellow that pales to a pure white.
It rains. Great splotches of wet on the pavement. But only thus far. The splotches do not even link up. Soon, they vanish into air.
Evening has all but turned to night, dark blue the only shade in the sky, but the billowing clouds to the north are clear every now and again as lightning flashes through them. (No thunder to be heard.)
Turkeys sauntering along the grassy islands between the strip mall and the highway. When I have reached my car, they had crossed to the grassy median, and then reached the other road and were carefully watching for cars. By the time I drive by, they had finished crossing and were pecking at the grass before another strip mall.
An enormous cloud billows, rising in the palest shades from rosy to orange, through yellow, to white, in all the intricate, fractal puffiness.
Along the roadside, here and there -- in places thickly -- the birches and the aspen are turning yellow for fall.
In the greenery, a grayish bird perches -- shading a little toward brown, and with the bright red beak of a she-cardinal. Who are usually, if not the solid color of the he-cardinal, more reddish than this.
The woodland between our complex and the next had a lot of dead branches from the hurricane, but now I blink and realize that some are in fact withering from fall.
The moon, just shy of half, hangs in the blue sky. A single star gleams by it, and all about clouds are shades of blue, none of them light, but none of them the same.
The sky is filled with clouds, wisps and billows and the even pattern of small fluffy clouds in grids, and all in delicate shades of pinks and yellows and oranges until the sunset progresses further and the west blazes with more vivid shades.
A juniper bush is dying in patches. There are the blue-green needles thick on branches, with their berries a vivid green paler than their needles, and the branches where all the needles are rusty orange, and the berries there are a brighter blue than on the sound branches.
The garden had become a goldfinch banquet, though they are startled away whenever someone walks by, leaving behind bits of the coneflower heads, torn apart, over the garden.
The tree is still green, but here and there, as bright as rubies, leaves have turned red.
The praying mantises are about. The bit of green is just visible under their brown wings and makes their twig pose look startlingly natural.
What horrible handwriting! Two lines across the sky are so criss-crossing that they look like a signature. In the Roman alphabet, though unreadable.
In the parking lot, there are geese, but in the brush sheltered pool, tall and gray like a metal statue, a heron stands.
The flock flies over the grove of trees, dark, their forms just bird-like with distance, but the cawing confirms they are crows. (Impossible to tell by size, with no points of reference.)
Evening walks mean that the roses appear as sweetness hanging in the air, and only by looking about can you see the flowers.
A chipmunk flits up the stairs and sits on the landing, eyeing me. On my landing, actually, so I go up the stairs. It takes a heroic leap sideways. (Admittedly only four steps high.)