marycatelli (marycatelli) wrote,
marycatelli
marycatelli

sun and summer

Snow white in the pond -- not swans but water lilies, surrounded by the dingy green of their lily pads.

I go to leave the store, and outside, it is bright and sunshiny, and raining buckets, with every drop gleaming like diamond before it splashes into the puddles and rivulets.  I give it a few minutes, and the rain is gone for me to get to my car, but the spray as I drive is amazing.  Along a highway with my back to the sun, it gives a rainbow that arches the height of my windshield, just behind the nearest car to my right.  But going with the sunlight slanting on the side, and though the hills and even the roadside are green gilded by the full light, and the sky is blue with a few puffy white clouds.  Oddly enough, when I drive on, the highway dries just as the sky darkens to charcoal, and a rainbow arches through the sky, soft and pastel-like, but a full sixty degrees or so.

The clover loves this year.  Grassy swards by the roadside have grass nodding over a thicket of red and white and yellow hop clover, blossoming away.  The red clover is already turning to brown as it goes to seed.

A bank by the road is covered with pink flowers, tending toward purple.  Perhaps sweet pea, but they flash by so swiftly. . . .  A second day reveals them purple clover -- not the red clover that also grows rather purple, because it is pale and more purely a shade of purple, and stands straighter.

A rainy day.  A small black cat, sitting on a sidewalk as gray as the clouds, ignoring the rain but watching the cars with pale green disapproving eyes.

The sweet scent spreads out from the honeysuckle.  No one could take it for roses, but words fail -- the sense of smell being wired to more primitive, wordless parts of our mind, we lack the words to distinguish.

The chicory is in bloom, standing among the grass gone to seed, its stems as stiff as twigs, but the flowers bright sky blue.

The rabbits came out late this year, but this day five were crouched in the green lawn, half hidden by the rising grass, all their variegated shades of brown as they watched me walk by before they risked hopping onward.

A chipmunk, cheerful and chipper with its black and white streaks down its back, bounces through the grass on leaps as large as any rabbit's.

A lemony white moon gleams in a sky of not black but indigo so rich it seemed almost too dark to be colorful.

Along a white picket fence, rose bushes are set.  One with blooms of rich pink; one, sunshiny yellow; and the third like the dawn with blushing along the edge of the yellow rose.

Birds of yellow.  A yellow-winged blackbird with brilliant patches on its wings of jet black.  Goldfinches in bright livery of yellow and black.  And some little birds, I am not sure which, with drab brown heads and wings, but bright aureate tummies.

It's not the heat, it's the humidity -- days of 90s and dry are more sufferable than those of 70s and damp, but now we get days of 90s and damp, monsoon swamping with no break -- the clouds bring rumbles but no rain.

Hydragenas are blooming.  One or two are pure white, or pure blue.  Most are multicolored; though the clumps of flowers are often the same, on the same bush they blossom pink or blue or purple, looking rather like litmus paper used in a lab where many things are acids or bases or neutral -- only more delicate and less flagrant in shade -- which is ironic, since it is the solid color ones that are, in fact, indicators, changing because of the soil.

Crows on a roof top.  One has some kind of cracker in its beak, too big to swallow.  Impossible to break up, because two other crows are stalking along the ridge toward the lucky crow, eyeing it, and sometimes darting in.  When it finally puts it by its feet, they squabble at length.

A bird flies over the street -- enormous.  Dark enough against the sunlit sky to be a crow, but even with all allowance for scale and the difficulty of finding it against the sky, that has to be a hawk, or even an eagle.

A tree flowering with sweet-scented white blossoms -- drawing all the bees and things to flit from bloom to bloom, dark against the pallor.

An August tree still is reaching from the green forest toward the road with one bough of crimson-colored leaves.

A road-side cliff face is covered with aspens turning yellow with August.

Birds flit over the road in the sunlight from the westering sun, and their wings blaze with light, turning brilliantly white as they send the sunlight glancing this way and that.
Tags: nature
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