A crane stands in the lake where the water is so deep you can barely see the legs enough to be sure it's a crane. And it has a wet sheen to it, as if it had plunged after a fish not long ago.
ah, roses, roses, and more roses. Roses that show every shade of pink, with the palest shade looking rather sad as the flower goes to see. Yellow roses like bright coins, and roses red as blood. Roses in every shade of pink and orange, some so dark as to look like flame, with every subtle shading from pink to orange on a flower. Roses brilliant yellow with hot pink borders to the petals, turning slowly to white roses with pink borders.
A bluejay, all white and blue, perched within the leaves, going peck, peck, peck on a knob in wood.
A cloud like fibers in the sky, a wisp patch -- colored from red to violet in a rainbow shades
The waterlilies start to blossom, snowy white, on the lake. Alas, the pond scum is also turning the surface that rancid greenish-brown. Even the stricking contrast doesn't really make it worth looking at.
I glance over the red, almost fluorescent flowers -- and blink at the black. It takes a second look to see the butterfly darkly perching on the blooms, with a couple of pale blue spots in its black wings.
How the snapdragons flare -- pink, hot pink, fiery salmon and still more fiery orange -- all of them with the yellow throats, but for some, it's just a hint at the center, with salmon about it, and others are so yellow that the salmon is just a hint on the edge of the petals.
the sky is full of gray and white clouds, with just a patch of blue, but across it stretches the rainbow, in its gentle, pure, fragile colors.
the wind carries the scent like honeysuckle, sweetness afloat on the air -- I wonder if it's the honeysuckle season -- and then I come up to the bush, where great masses of buds are still green, but a few pale blooms are open -- how sweet they must be, to scent the air with so little.
Snapdragons in bud are rather unpretty clumps of knots -- however colorful. Intriguing perhaps, but not so lovely as the blaze of full bloom is.
What a year for hop clover it has been. Everywhere it grows in bright, cheerful yellow, on medians and in the lawns, sometimes in low but large clumps, some rising on stalks so high it takes looks to be sure that it's not buttercups.
You know it's hot when you step out, and it's windy, and you do not appreciate the breeze but instead think it's just mixing up the hot air.
Queen Anne's lace in full bloom, nodding in lacy whiteness before the wind, reaching high above the grass about it.
The sky dark slate blue overhead, the sunlight slanting in, is often a way to see the landscape in brilliant shades. Alas, this sight was of a lawn turned rich amber shades because the rainfall came too late for the lawn: that grass is dead.
On the other hand, the rain did some good; the next day, a lot of dead grass had green threaded through it, though there were spots where it was all yellow and dead.