Something the only form the cloud has is a graceful curve, as smooth and as soft and as gray as the breast of a dove.
A bush of bright red berries -- I don't know what kind -- but the sun behind them makes the berries glow like stained glass.
There is one advantage to having to do the daily walk late, with the sky darkening, to avoid the heat: down by the stream, glinting like bits of mica, the fireflies flare, brief pale lights.
Walking in the morning, seeing the ragged grayish mist, like a dove, even though the sun has risen, and pondering the shade. Did not foresee the pelting rain that bucketted down on my commute -- which wasn't from the mist, which was indeed to low and ragged and ill-formed to form a thunderstorm, only to presage one.
An aged crow -- it must be aged, on each wing you see a gray feather among the black.
A thistle bush. It can't just be a plant, not because all the stems coming off the main stem (though fairly low) but because it's about my height. The spread of Queen Anne's lace by it is another matter; they are also my height, even with the cups of white lace facing downward, the stems bent just below the bloom, but they all shoot straight upward on a single stalk.
Chicory blooms along the side of the road, holding up its flowers on high stalks over the grass. Flecks of blue when you look straight at it, but when you glanced down a mass of them, a line along the road, it looks like heaven descended to earth.
Where the grass verges into the brush, the undergrowth that starts the forest -- there is a wild turkey lifting its head high enough that its head and half its body in its patchwork brown can be seen -- and then another head, distinguishable as a chick only by its height, for the feather are the same subtleties of browns. I edge over to see, and another turkey was standing on the lawn, and a flurry of chicks is chugging for the brush -- I counted nine, but with those that vanished into the brush, there must have been at least a dozen.
Thistle and loosestrife are the exactly same shade of purple. You have to look at the round little burst of bloom and the gently curving cone to know them.
A willow shrubbery -- at first the stumps had a few sprouts curling out, but now they grow so thickly that you can not even make out that there was a stump, the coppice looks like a jungle and envelops all the dead wood.
Sparrows flocking brownly about the house -- not just perched on the bushes beside it, not just perched on the beam that holds up the deck, but on top of the frame of the garage door. Looks only a bit awkward, too.
The turkeys again. Except this time, they are out for a meander in front of the townhouses. Not only do I think of counting this time, it's much more feasible this time -- especially since they meander by me, one adult in the lead, brown variegated feathers, one bringing up the rear, looking the same, sometimes among the last chicks, and in between the chicks ambling along, pecking at the earth here and there, just about perfect miniatures of the adults, though "miniature" in this case means like an out-sized pigeon on legs much longer than any pigeon's.
How it must have rained. It could have been much heavier, in the marshy parts the cattails are all standing tall, but wherever greenery grew on spurs of land, reaching out into stream, the greenery lay flat on the ground. At first, I thought it looked like a boat had grounded up on the shore, but since the two places were above and below the dam, and on different branches of the stream, it must have been water. The next day the cattails were still bent but rising, looking like curved bows. The marsh grass looked like it had decided that lying flat on the ground was kinda okay by it.
The first blush of autumn perhaps -- though the spread of blushing red on the roadside tree still looks like new growth. Still, within a few days I see leaves yellowing on branches, and one fruit tree has speckled in its green leaves that are red or yellow.
The rain passes through so sharply that looking out a window shows charcoal dark to the left, and clear blue to the right, with one towering cloud as intricate as foam, and in between only a band where it lightens and grows more wispy. Going out -- the pavement is still slick with so much water that it looks as blue as the sky in large stretches.
I never have fathomed people who saw pictures in the clouds. Mackerel skies do look like fish scales, I grant you, but on the whole, clouds look uncommonly like clouds and nothing else. Though I saw one of those clouds that vault up to the sky with all their intricacity like foam, and it rose to a point rather than their usual pillar, and it looked like a hilltop with trees rounded all about, and their leaves for further detail.
Turkeys. Sitting on the grass, looking compact -- some stretching their wings, which shows up the variegation of brown so much more vividly -- except one looks over and sees me walking and they start to pick their way off, with glances back to me. The last holdout was just sitting there, and then it stretched, and then it noticed me and went after the rest -- they had come closer to me, from farther away, than they let me get this time.
A soft honking, like the quacks of very weary ducks, as I walk by the marsh. Maybe it's frogs.
A cattail can be a mighty thing. One, broken at the base, lies across the stream. Behind it, backed up, the pond scum grows for many strides, with the cattail holding the waters still for it. A rainy day later, the cattail still lies there, but slanted across the stream -- and the pond scum had vanished from the water's surface.
How clouds can shift. I set out to walk on a day with the sky covered with dove-gray clouds, but before I finish the block, I am walking in sunshine from the clear blue sky, and a great masses of charcoal gray cloud billow across half the sky -- the northern half.
Jewelweed grew thickly, in great bushes, among the cattails, speckled with their bright orange flowers. From one stretch, you can see the stream only if you stood in the right place to look straight down the channel, and there it was only a brief brightness, because the thickness of the jewelweed, spreading over it.
Piebald trees, with the wind blowing all the maple leaves, turning them over to show the silver, and the vines bearing heavier leaves showing masses of a darker green splattered throughout the silver.
A twittering so loud that it can be heard down the block, though until I walk down the parking garage I can't see the flock of brown hopping and flitting about the branches, and twittering and twittering as they gather in force.
Geese flying above a cornfield in a hopeless jumble -- or perhaps I'm just at the wrong angle, for a little while on, the skein flies by my car again, and I can see the lines of the v, the usual ragged reality, but definitely v-like.
Pink doves! All right, not a baby pink, rather ashes of roses, and mostly their breasts with their wings still the brownish-grayish shade, but still, distinctly pink doves.
A rose on a bush where the others are fading and withering, but it's still the flamboyant, splendid, flaming red and gold commingled of a sunset.