The lawn, alongside the road, has a low stone wall, where rounded rocks tumble -- except in the morning light, as you drive up and by, you see some of them are purplish, and then that they are mounded gill-over-the-ground abloom.
A robin comes bouncing through the branches, except even half covered behind the greenery -- wasn't its belly rather orange? And then, wasn't it rather small? and its configuration of orange and brown a bit odd? I remembered "Baltimore" but had to google to be sure of "oriole."
A goldfinch flits through the air, its wings flashing out and drawing in to make it look like a bullet -- a very bright bullet, because despite the black, its yellow is more fluorescent than gold.
Cherries and crabapples rival each other, both having small leaves endeavoring that impossibility, a reddish green, intermingling with deeply pink buds, and brighter pink blossoms -- with the cherries more bright, and the crabapples more intensely colored, but both shading subtly between the red shades. The apples, on the other hand, are a sharp green for leaves and bright, gem-like pink for the furled buds, and the bright pale pink of open blossoms.
How green the grass and leaves look by rainy daylight. Best of all in a hollow filled with green underbrush, pale with spring, and with a green roof of boughs.
We had a heavy rain. It is not a metaphoric term. The pansies have their red or violet flowers facing the earth, and the burden of rainwater has bent tulips over until they bow over the garden.
The dandelions are out in force. Sometimes, glancing sideways while driving by, they form a radiant field of gold before I remember they're dandelions.
Was thinking that the wild mustard out to be out because the dandelions were, but it was a few days later when first I saw them -- the same brazen yellow, but in lacy arrays -- and having the knowledge that they are fleeting.
Weeding up geraniums trying to take over the garden, and dead snapdragons, brings up their roots, long, tuberous, like vegetables, almost. You pull up the plant and the root starts to break through the earth for inches or even a full foot. (At least it's easier to plant something in the earth there, already broken up.)
Walking alongside the marshy part of the brook, I see a woman and her three children peering into the brook, starting with the girl pointing out, It's there, and all gawking at it with the little boys say it's huge, and when I came up by them I looked in. Between the murky water, laden with mud, and the reflections of a sunny day, I saw nothing, but as I continued to look -- like an antediluvian creature from the primordial past, a turtle swims up, its back three bands of plates. Indeed, a big one. Hard to judge its size with nothing to compare beside it -- definitely larger than a dinner plate and I think smaller than a car tire. It swam up to the surface and stood there, breathing with nothing but its nose out, before I headed off.
A cherry tree has been pruned so that its central boughs had a great array of branches that just stuck up, like candles, and the mass of it was all dark green leaves, and the branches were covered with blossoms and pink.
The leaves are growing larger, almost looking summery, but when the sun goes behind them and whether pale green or dark ruby red, they glow from the sunlight pouring through, it's still clearly spring.
About work, there are plenty of cherry trees, all abloom like cotton candy. Three of them stand so close together that it's hard to see, with their trunks all shadowed, that all the mass of pink is not one enormously elongated cherry tree.
A squirrel imitates the Tarot's Hanged Man -- on a bough reaching over the road, it climbed out to the very thinnest branches and hung head-down, happily munching the seeds -- and evidently had enough, since it folded itself up to snag the branch up higher.
Sunlight no longer pours through the leaves like through stained glass. With the sun behind them, the trees are turning to masses of shadow.
Geese sit beside the parking lot as serenely as if it were a pond. Something stirs them up, or perhaps they've just sat about, so they start to stretch and stand -- not to fly before I decide I do have to go on.
Iris buds all furled in their yellow -- and the next morning seven are out without a single one unfurling still, all of them in full bloom.
A duck lands in a pond, a great flutter of wings and a splash -- moments later, it swims along, only a ripple of wake behind it.
A duck flies over a bridge that crosses the waterway between two ponds, but two trees have boughs that stretch nearly over it. Some frantic flapping to rise over them.
The rose garden is all foliage in that attempt at impossible reddish green -- with one rose bush with great pink blooms, larger than a hand, another with deep, intense pink blooms, past their prime really, and a climber with lovely yellow blooms being all that shows just yet, but with masses and masses of roses still awaiting their hour after the late spring.
across the grass, low down among the blades, cinquefoil in yellow and bluets in pale blue form clumps of brightness.
Fish. A few of the goldfish are that bright, flagrant red-gold shade. Others are the pale white-touched-with-gold and dark splotches -- one an enormous one, longer than my fore-arm. But most of the fish are so dark and shades of brown that they were all but invisible in the pond water, except that a family threw them bits of bread. The water seethed with them, four or five heads surging from the bread so closely packed that no water could be seen. And once you knew to look, you could see how they filled the pond.
Feral irises speckle the side of the pond, blossoming a cheerful yellow.
How pink the new leaved copper beeches are -- pinker than cherries in full bloom, just tinged with copper, espeically when sunlight pours through them.
Out in the pond, immobile, there are two distinctly turtle-like shapes basking on a log.
Over a gate, yellow roses bloom profusely, like coins, their double petals not keeping them from opening outward like a simple bloom.
A bed of rugosa roses has the dark pink blooms, sweetly scented, in a massive bramble, studded with thorns, as if it were walling off a castle instead of ending in its neat little rectangle.
A rose bushes spreads its branches over the fence where its been trained -- but over it, the branches rise up, bushing out to form a tree, all sweet with the ruby-red flowers.
A garden bed is set with irises in, indeed, a rainbow of colors. Yellow. Blue. Peach. Pink. Purple. White with purple fringes. There is even some that are in orange and purple motley; it does not become them.
The trees do not form a proper forest, there are vast stands of ferns, but also of bright buttercups and grass, and pink wildflowers
You can tell that the vacant lot has been vacant and untended only a few years. The trees rising there are past sapling height, but they are all aspens, every leaf a-quiver in every breeze.
Feral forget-me-nots grow by -- or rather in -- the stream, where the promontory was flooded and battered by the spring rains and snow melt, so that water still pools there, and the forget-me-nots with their feet flooded grow happily into bushes and blossom in blue.
Columbines rise waist-high, like bushes, and grow enormous bell-like flowers, until you think they are the size of pink and white church bells.
Seeds in their fluffy white float through the air like very brief snow flurries. Or clump against the grass like snow starting to accumulate.
In the median where the exit curls off, the grass has gone to seed, and against its golden tinge, the stands of daisies and hop clover, great massive mounds of white and yellow, harmonize gently.
I park at the grocery, where, between the grocery and gas station and strip mall behind, there's a patch where the things grow wild -- the tangle of vines and brush and trees -- and something shifts within, and I see a deer, which looks back over the greenery at me.
White clover grows thickly all over the lawn, so many white blossoms everywhere -- even in other places, where the stands of clover have fewer flowers, you can see from quite far off the edges of the patch, where narrow blades turn to fat, rounded leaves in great mats.
Ah, the roses, the roses. Some in radiant red, others in intense pink -- one in a pale pink that instantly made me think of old-fashioned shades -- some were dingy and yellowish in buds, but the purest of snow whites open -- some were just ruddy buds, all the bushes on the verge of blooming, but not one open yet, where others had buds still green except for one single bloom, fully open and brightly red. Carnivalesque roses in red and white streaks, or with rosy red borders to golden petals. A triple rose in a stygian shade of purple. Thickets of rugosa roses, with thorns enough for Sleeping Beauty's castle. And then there was the heritage rose garden. Go into that nook and stand still and only breath pure sweetness.
Like a stone in the stream, muddy brown, but very round -- and perhaps shifting a little -- but careful watching sees first a few more shifts that might been a trick of the eye, opening to current, and then a turtle head pokes up to breathe, and eye me disapprovingly, even over the stream.