A calvacade of squirrels cross the road -- all of the squirrels gray, on gray and rainy day, and the asphlat less than perfectly black -- but they still all made it.
Ah, roses, roses, roses -- a garden full of roses. Many of them like the dawn, all peach and pink and orange shifting into each other on the petals -- and when they fade, they turn even more pink. One was a positively bronze shade, and still turned pink as it faded. Other roses are brilliantly scarlet, and as the petals see the sun, they grow streaked with white in a carnivalesque pattern. Other simpler roses look like white apple blossoms -- and look white even when the petals have fallen, instead of the grubby off-white shade that white roses so often get. (Even some in the garden -- and they get the speckles, too.) Some, hot red, look faded as they age because the head is bent, revealing the back of the petals, all but white.
As dried leaves before the wild hurriciane fly -- but actually, you don't need a hurriciane. Or dried leaves. The advent of a thunderstorm was heraled by winds. First was the cottonwood seeds, little fluffy puffs of whiteness, dancing up and down and sideways, but then there were oak leaves, still the sober green, and even a branch with half a dozen leaves flitted over a nearby rooftop.
It rains from clouds overhead, where the clouds are least easily seen. Much easier, sometimes, when the cloud is a stygian shade of charcoal, and buckets are pouring down, to see the clear blue sky, bright with sunlight, just past it.
Autumn already? No -- as I approach the bright red maple leaves, I see from their size that this is a new sprig, the branch adorned with a cluster of leaves still reddish with newness. I've seen others since I noticed it - mostly maple, but another tree, I know not what, had a new sprig with leaves like ripe peaches.
A brown-tailed black squirrel. Indeed, almost a beige-tailed black squirrel, and it's not the lighting -- all of the squirrel gets as much sunlight, so the light is not suffusing through, lightening the shade. (And though gray squirrels have brown hair variegated through their pelts, not half so much as this squirrel.)
Sunlight on, half behind the maples. Not turning them into such silhouettes that you can not tell that that stygian shade is green, and that one deep red -- but close -- except where the sunlight strikes the leaves and turns them almost silvery with the light glinting from them.
A flash of baby blue through the slats of the bridge's railing -- looking down reveals that at the bend in the stream, two clumps of forget-me-nots are flowering away, pale blue and yellow in small, five-petalled blooms. It alerted me. Upstream, I caught another glimpse -- those forget-me-nots had ingeniously hid behind the stump of a willow tree, and I walked on the grass to get a good look at them. And some more along the stream, blossoming away, but perhaps I would not have noticed the scattering of them on the other side of the stream.
How tattered clouds look when they are the remnants of morning mist, or thunderstorm, dissolving into a clear day -- the only difference between being the way the mist looks like white rags, torn this way and that -- and the thunderstorm like dirty rags.
Ah, the lake where the pond scum is growing -- stretches of it look like oil streaks between patches of ugly greenish brown -- with waterlilies blossoming along as if it were the most natural place in the world for cloud-white flowers to bloom.
A crowd of brown as I come up the walkway -- and they all flee, the little sparrows taking to wing and the little rabbit bounding off into the bushes.
A bumblebee crawling in its yellowness on a pale, creamy yellow rose. A bed of bright sunshiny yellow roses, next to one where the blooms were more creamy and more orange. A rosebed where the new blooms were pink and yellow shading into each other like the dawn, and they faded -- not all of them to pink. One branch had two roses as close as though embracing, one having faded to a pale, pure pink, the other to a pure orange, equally pale; though both were speckled with darker shades, it was always the same hue as the rest, only darker. Another rose is red and yellow, the red a rim like a ribbon at the bottom of a skirt that blazes yellow -- it fades to pink and white, and both faded and fresh always reminds me of Carnival. How the honeybees chose their roses. One bed of pink flowers, and far off in another section, another of red, the shade one thinks of as rosy red, were filled with bees in the hearts of the blossoms.
Perhaps they were pigeons -- they were too far off to see for certain as they burst into the air and flitted about. But their colors were not, a brilliant white like the sun through a thin cloud for half a dozen of them; a shade of black, or a stygian gray, for another half-dozen. As they whirled and swirled about in the air, some showed their wings patterned, with black and white at once.
The roadside yellow with masses of hop clover, and over them the chicory like sentinels in pale blue livery.
Young rabbits are small, but their ears are even smaller, relative to their bodies -- little tiny ears, twitching about as they try to nibble on clover and keep an eye on you.
How far a breezy day can carry the honeysuckle smell -- far outpaces beyond your ability to see it, so you walk in sweetness for long before you see the blooms.