marycatelli (marycatelli) wrote,
marycatelli
marycatelli

summer's pomps

The spring air, though very warm, was balmy with moisture, its breezes like the brush of a kitten's paw.

A hawk stands on a grassy sward, dark brown against the green. For a moment, a quick glance takes it for a groundhog.

Clouds sharp in gray and white against the haze -- on one side, the other insensibly melting into the haze.

A blustery day makes a birch look like its leaves are white, they reflect the light so sharply. Behind, where the wind is bending the maples, also brilliant white on places, but there the leaves shadow other branches so that it is not white all over.

Maple seeds scatter over the path, intact and with each little wing ready to take flight again, as soon as the wind catches under them.

The brook runs clear again after days of rain; the current is brisk enough that the pond scum is no longer clouding it over.

Daisies star the grassy medians and road sides. In places, the grass towers over them with their seeds - not many. So many grass blades grow no more than ankle-high before going to seed and turning the entire sward silvery.

Goslings on the pond bank -- not, to be sure as pretty as ducklings, they never are -- but instead of the dingy dishwater gray-brown you sometimes see, they were a medley of yellow and brown

Went to the park to see how the roses are doing this early, and apparently -- many of them are later than usual. There were some in bloom, to be sure: great single-petal ones in deep red, multifoliate little ones in cotton candy pink, some large ones with a pink almost purple in shade, an archway overladen with roses in a sweet shade of yellow. But hunting through the bushes for those, I saw how brilliantly white the bushes looked in the noonday light -- they gleamed like silver -- they made it a bit hard to find those in bloom without looking through them all.

A massive stand of tulips still had its stalks as upright as pillars, though of the petals there are only a few withered brown rags.

Grass on the median turned a shade of bronze-brown as it went to seed. The wind blows, and it bends, more metallic than ever in its curving.

A red-winged blackbird takes wing for a willow, and against a gust of wind, it beats, and beats, and beats its wings, its red patches brilliant as medals on its wings. Another, its red as brilliant, flies the other way and finds it much easier to reach a maple.

A tree sheds its seeds, which are light and fluffy like the most delicate and lattice-like snowflakes, and they gleam whitely in the sunlight as they loft through the air.

A lawn is starred with bright yellow hawkweed, and for all the flowers are formed like dandelions', though smaller, it's still easy to see at a distance that dandelions they are not. Their flowers stand bolt upright on their stalks.

Driving off to check out Gilette Castle -- the forest along the highway is dark green marked with brilliance, pale, pale green where the sunlight broke though the canopy, like emeralds with the sunlight glinting on them -- but on the road the canopy overarches the way, so you can see into the forest with the floor of ferns so even and so green and spreading far under the trees -- and all along the way, lakes and ponds were showing lily pads. There, I walked on the paths to their ponds, walled in by stone, with lily pads, and the waterlilies showing their vividly pink blossoms, starting to unfurl. A full blown lake welled below, and in the gully where the water must overflow ferns and brush grew, and wild irises were purple as twilight, out to the lake filled with lily pads, where one tree arched over the water like its roots had given way, but still grew greenly, and rushes stood thickly on the other side.

Firs put out new growth, fat little fingers blue-green with new needles. Behind them, the sedate, sober green of the old growth can still be seen. They don't actually clash, but the most felicitous of combinations, they are not.

The rainfall washed the brook clean of pond scum, but now it is littered, on both sides and wherever the current is caught by puffy white seedpods. The grass beyond is half white with all the pods caught among the blades.

Everywhere, wild roses are in bloom, with little white flowers, a set of five petals about their heart. Some gardens have roses as well, pink ones that perfume the air down to the street, red ones that have no scent though I walk up to them.

An enormous goldfish, of a size to make you think trout, but all golden and black patches, nibbles at the side of the pond.

The park is full of roses now. The heritage rose garden is still sad under construction, but there are roses, roses pink and many petaled, or with only five, and the air smelled like a perfumery, though you had to get in close.

The roses all about are blooming. Not all, to be sure. One patch has a scraggly spread of tiny bushes, their branches scarcely reaching out, each with buds, except one with a particolored flower in red and white, already past its prime and withering. Roses of yellow with their edges brushed with pink so they look like the dawn, or sunset. Roses with red fringe about their yellow petals, or pink fringe to their white ones -- or roses not striped but streaked with red and white. And whenever the wind blows in the right directions, the sweetness of the air.

A stand of irises with flowers as blue as the sky, all nodding in the breeze.

The sprouts are growing in the field. If you look at them from one side, they are just a jumble of green. From the other road, however, you can see the lines of plowing and planting -- and where six lines converged together as the field's shape twisted the lines, and at the end, they must not have seen clearly, because the lines overlap. This morning two deer were bounding across it, but one stopped and looked over its shoulder at whatever it had been fleeing.

The remnants of Andrea proved a gullywhomper. The brook still runs heavily, rushing over rocks with splashing and foam, and one promitory, out into the stream, has all its rushes and grass and forget-me-not laid flat.

A songbird, narrow, dark gray, sitting in the grass, flips its wings oddly. Only as I come close do I see the rivulet running through the grass, so the bird is bathing itself -- rather through, flipping water on itself again and again in its grass-lined bath.

The wild roses bloom alongside the roads and parking lots, all white, all simple blooms, but when the air was warm and wet with approaching rain, and the wind was just so, the air is heavily with their scent, a sweetness to summon bees.

The rainfall left the flowers all burdened with wetness, so flowers amethyst and garnet line the walk with bowed heads and half-hidden faces.

Sunny at lunch, but by leaving work, the streetlights are on with the clouds charcoal gray overhead, awaiting the moment to open and let loose a downpour. Yet an hour later, there is blue sky and no rain.

Saplings stand where they were planted, with leaves growing raggedly. Some have a good head of greenery, but others are thin and eliolated, with bare branches, and one has its leaves all about its ankles, with the branches overhead barren.
Tags: nature
Subscribe

  • weather and the wizards

    There are going to be some characters who are ungrateful for the green and pleasant land they live in. They claim that the wizards are not needed.…

  • villains and conflict

    When writing superhero stories about an inner or philosophical conflict -- what is the best use of my powers? should powers serve the law to preserve…

  • Against Three Lands

    Against Three Lands by George Phillies Adventure and politics in another world. Particularly in the Thousand Islands, which is, culturally a mix of…

  • Post a new comment

    Error

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

  • 1 comment