An apple tree in green leaf before a slope of lush green grass.
A magnolia still in bud is all deeply purple.
One plant is dingy pinkish brown with all the buds. They open to a pure white, but there are so few in blossom that the dinginess rules all.
A cherry in white flower stands all but entwined by a paper birch with its white bark -- the birch's new leaves are high enough that all about is all white.
The bee balm has its sweet spicy scent even as I tear up the bare, dried stalks to clear the way for next year's sprouts.
The stand of trees along the way is full of red and white and yellow -- only the white being flowers, the others being new leaves.
The brush is all sprightly, new, pale green under the still leafless trees. Some places it's new growth on the desolation of cut trees leaving only wood chips.
In the gray day, among the greening trees, the trees flower into whiteness, one here, another there, a third elsewhere, until you can look nowhere without seeing half a dozen of the bridal white trees.
A flock of seagulls in parking lot. Many odd shades, brownish, molted, as if new fledged.
The daffodils are out in force, most lovely where they are feral, growing among trees and brush and dead leaves, but the tulips are rivaling them, so many in lovely reds and pinks like rubies.
Gill-over-the-ground grows -- all over the ground, looking purple and lopsided and in amorphous clumps. Many of its flowers look downward so the purple is only a glimpse.
On a roadside, a plant no bigger than a bush still shows it's an apple tree by the fiery pink buds like gems.
A leafing Japanese maple still is pale enough that the sunlight shines through the leaves and turns them as luminous as rubies.
Under the bridge, and just alongside it, with the sunset light striking it full on, the tree is full of pink blossom and deeper pink buds.
The loveliest of trees is the crab apple. Some are darker than others but both are a full-bodied rich, dark shade of pink. And their open blossoms are as deeply colored as the buds.
In the aftermath of rainfall, the dandelions are hard to identify. The outer petals were pushed outward like a halo, the inner ones together like a center, and all and all it looks more like an aster than a dandelion.
A startling yellow, like a plastic thingamabob stuck in an apple's branches, proves, on second glance, to be a goldfinch. Since it can't be something else, though the fluorescent yellow with its tinge of green dominates its body with only the faintest splotches of black.
The apple blossoms, just yesterday their intense, deeply pink buds like gems, opened overnight to a delicate pink beneath a dove gray sky. A gust of wind is sweet with their scent.
A walk down a sidewalk finds a sudden sweet scent and only by looking around does the lilac become visible.
The turtle-sunning rock is clearly the turtle-sunning rock today. Most times, the turtles are bumps of the same brownish gray as the rock, where the pond is starting to think of turning back into a stream, but today, the turtles had clearly decided it was a good time to bask just before I drove by. They were all visibly wet and darker than the rock, and clearly turtles.
Spring is into full and glorious bloom. Cherries and dogwoods and apples all abloom over vast and radiant beds of phlox and tulips, or in feral growth among the forest. Lawns laden with violets in white or violet or patterns of both, and gill over the ground. Trees leaving so far that sometimes you can not see the branches -- and the route goes up and up and up into the hills, and daffodils start to reappear. Fewer tulips though not none. The trees are still flowering, or utterly bare. Returning brings scenes where the daffodils are starting to wither.
In the misty gray morning, the grass is bluish in its green.
The dogwoods are the bright pink of cotton candy, sometimes lighter sometimes darker.
The season of forget-me-nots is a sea of sky, the small flowers covering the plants with that bright blue.
The wildflowers are brightly yellow. Most of them are lacy wild mustard, but one is a stand of bright yellow bowl-like blossoms: the buttercups are blooming.
A mother duck and her ducklings on the pond. The mother all brown and the ducklings with brown over the heads and down their backs and in large splotches so that only the traces of yellow are seen. They are snacking on the watery plants in the open water, but when I come out on the flagstones nearer the pond, the whole paddling shifts over, steadily, toward the rushes and away from me.