The sun roses are in full bloom, fiery orange-red, with an orange and a few yellow off to the side -- probably the first blooms, bleached by the sun.
The ice plant is a vivid fiesta of orange and ruby, with a sheen that catches the sun, where it was not shaded by the bush before. Where it was shaded, a few of the blossoms appear, here and there, in the green.
The yellow columbine is ugly. Even when looking about the garden shop for specifically yellow plants, it does not pass muster.
A scent, sweet and floral, hangs on the still air. No flower is near. Rose bushes and honeysuckles bloom within the block, but not near. The scent hangs in the air for so, so, so far.
A delicate little moon, a tiny silver of a circle, is palely gold over the sunset.
The irises are staggered. The burgundy brown irises are in full bloom here, and over there the icy blue, but the purple ones on the way are just buds, and the ones in my garden show buds, but only I know their color, and that from memory.
In the median, the daisies bloom all at once, as white as clouds, in great stands -- often with stands of wild mustard in its lacy yellow nearby, but themselves alone.
The trees are greening from the sprightly spring shade to much more green summer leaf, but in the midst of a field with many such trees, two remain flaming yellow. No hint of orange to it -- but none of green, either.
The poppies are so fiery orange that they look much the same when light strikes from behind and through them, and before, and from the side.
Ah, the rose bush is out. An early one, still in the heart of May, and you can smell it strides away.
The orange iris is blossoming, its blooms, more yellow than those of the poppy, towering over it. It is not, as it might seem at a distance, as tall as grown women, but there are many children in this neighborhood that it overtops.
The bellflower stalks, overnight, bloomed into the delicate blue shade of its flowers that are, indeed, like bells.
The birdbath has weathered with years and looks ancient, neither brown nor gray, and the rose bush flowers by it with lovely single red roses, a flower hanging over
The snapdragons are all flowering. Mauve is the favorite color for the seedlings from last years flowers, but some are a deep crimson, others are pale pink, and bright pink, and a delicate antique pink shade, and often with yellow centers to them. One is a pure, pure, pure red.
The neighbor's garden is lined with marigolds like little lights. They stand ramrod straight and thin -- spindly from growing together in sets, and striving for the light -- and each bears a single blossoms of orange or yellow. Probably summer will full them out.
The moon hangs in the pale blue skies, with clouds long streaks of darker blues, and looks itself faintly pink.
A whole host of sparrows flocks about where last year's drought left the grass patchy, and several of them are at once bathing in the dust -- until walking by disturbs them.
The sky is filled with choppy clouds, thick and thin in clumps, and the moon gleams behind them, looking gothic, as some clouds glow with the light and others are dark and hide the moon as they flit by.
Off to the rose garden! The tree-strewn lawn has puddles so large they must qualify as spring pools, and the irises bloom violet by the pond -- most darkly violet, a few in pale shades -- though the irises by the greenhouses are a few blue ones among the clearly withered blossoms. And the early roses were in great splendor. A pure white rose, single petals, climbing on the fence, and next to a pink one, with the blossoms every shade from the full pink to pure white, bleached by the sun. A rose with deep pink edges and golden inner to its petals, which fades to pink and white in the sunlight -- but not yet, it's still early. Masses of yellow-orange roses. Many pink and red, single or double or more. One roses is pink until past its peak, and then grows ragged and lavenderish. Another is lavender from the bud. From the rain, many roses were bent over and showing the pale to point of whiteness on the blooms, though the fronts were brightly red. The lovely yellow ones with their small, single flowers by the scores. And, for the first time, I am there after rain enough that I can see that the stream that joins to the pond -- familiar as a dirty ditch, or at most puddles -- flows away from the pond. The ground goes up about there -- chiefly after it turns, I realize, but the gurgling flow over the rocks and puddles is unmistakable.
A gray heron by the pond on a gray day. It stands and watches.
A new walk by work. It travels through some woods, by a brook, gurgling along over rocks or pooling in the shadow, and sending light rippling over the tree bark in a place or two. The trees are a bit spindly -- in one place the concrete foundation is still visible and not even very worn -- but the shade is cool and here and there wild roses are white in flower.
How brilliantly white the lightning is. A perfectly clear color, shooting down from the stygian clouds to the earth.
A careful watch on the bellflowers means that it is certain that it did, indeed, bloom all at once, its slender stalks coming out with a dozen blue delicate flowers -- a deeper blue than they will be after some time in the sun.
Roses, roses, everywhere. It seems that every business has planted rose bushes in the islands in the parking lot. Mostly a lovely red, though some are a pretty pink.
Outside the window, there are clouds, rising up to vast intricate roundities. At the bottom, they have the haziness of raining clouds, but still are pale bluish gray. Lightning nevertheless shoots brilliantly down.
The bank of grass is laden with yellow flowers: low-growing hop clover, taller plants with flowers that close by evening -- perhaps buttercups or perhaps hawkweed, different though they are in shape, because it's hard to see when driving by.
The rain has come, the rain has come, the heat has gone down, the air has grown muggy beyond belief. . . it is not an improvement.
The road-sides are pink with vetch in full bloom, and spotted with ragged robin all purplish pink
The place by the doctor's was in business the last time I was there. Now, though the roses are blooming in lovely red, the grass has grown so tall as to go to seed, and the for sale sign is up. (A week later, the grass is mowed and lies about like straw over the lawn.)
A heron flies by, leisurely and gray, so leisurely that it doesn't even reach the third floor of the building, thus giving a good view from the top of its flight from the window.
The butterflies are out, white and looking particularly lovely on the cream-colored flowers. But one is blue -- clearly sky blue, even after it lifts off the red blooms, so contrast is not driving it.
The hawk cries. The sort of noise you would expect over distant and desolate canyons in a video game or film -- right over a suburban townhouse complex.
How glorious the rose garden is. A bush with great, many petaled flowers in a dusky red-violet that looks antique. A white rose with so many petals, arrayed in a spiral, that looks like whipped cream swirled. Rose bushes with every shade of pink from bright to quite pale as the roses age. Roses that bloom a rosy blush with their gold and age into a sunrise gold -- and others that bloom with a rich orange and age into a dusky pink. And the old rose garden -- walking into it is walking into sweetness. Stand in the middle of pink and white and breathe deeply.