Trees like billows of brown smoke, and scattered among them great towering pine trees that look like trees.
Perwinkle blossoming blue and daffodils yellow against a weathered cliff face and among the dead leaves long turned to drab.
The forest filled with trees that are all leafless brown branches, and dead leaves brown on the forest floor, and in the midst a patch of daffodils blooming brightly yellow and another blooming cream and yellow.
A highway lined with trees all budding red, like a ruddy lacing over the trees.
Grass is growing. Not like when it rains after a drought, a sprightly bright green, but a careful peeking up through the dead yellow grass, and a sober shade of green. In the right stretches, with the dew on the grass, it's a carpet of emerald. It's the bushes by the roadside that are leafing with a pale, bright shade.
A hawk, brown, perched with its head tilted to one side in thought, like a carving. And easily seen because it was perched not on a streetlight but on the guard rail in the median.
A black squirrel darted across my path in New York, surprising me a little -- I'm used to them only in my own neighborhood. Then in my own neighborhood, I saw two brown squirrels. And not brown because sunlight suffused through the black fur revealing it was merely intense brown -- these were brown even in ordinary light. Variations on a theme. . . .
Ah, what morning dew does to fallen pine needles. Still amber in shade, but only the richest and ruddiest shades of amber.
The mist in the valleys, just reaching high enough to be seen like another hill between the hills. Misty where the valley is narrow, but where it is wide, it spread like a sea of porridge.
A magnolia tree, its blooms lit up by the slanting sunlight, and turning salmon as they glow.
A bluejay sits on a tree and warbles and warbles, a clear singing stream of notes, as clear as a bell. It flits to another tree, and sings again, and then switches to a more racuous note, still half musical. About other birds call, some a single clear ringing note and no more, some with less musical calls. It is not until noon, when the rain comes and drums on the roof, and then goes away, so that mist is seething from the pavement, that the birds burst out into full chorus, each warbling or cheeping or crying away.
All the brush in the forest sprouting its leaves in haste, to get the sunlight before the forest canopy blocks out it, and all the brush is of a height, so a level sweep of pale green spreads throughout.
Trees along the road, up the hill, are leafing in red and green, in patchwork -- no, more like a chessboard of red and pale green, with the trees interchanging color.