On the pond, two geese go out with their brood. The goslings, yellow and brown patches, hide for a bit, paddling along on the other side of their parents, so I see bits of fluff until they are out on the water. In the next ponds, ducklings no bigger than my hand, their fluff all commingled yellow and brown, rove everywhere, leaving their little wakes spreading out behind him.
Poppies grow, bright orange and red, in the median. But a little while on, far more striking, they grow as well, as if feral, beside a rockface.
The yellow roses bloom early, trailing over the fence, while all about the rose garden, the bushes are green -- and red, but with new leaves. Here and there, a rugosa is pinkly blooming, one small bush has flowers in pink and gold.
It's a good year for clover. All about in medians the grass is thick with red clover flowers, and yellow from the hop clover. Also in the garden where relentless weeding is needed to keep them down.
The white fluffy seeds float through the air, like the lightest of snow. Sometimes they come in flurries, and even accumulate and form seed drifts against obstacles.
Three rhododendron bloom by each other: one a pure, true red; one a shade of lavender; one a salmon/peach shade. It takes a lot for flowers to clash. These clash.
To one side, I see movement in the stream. I glance over from the bridge. A heron stands in the stream, up to its thighs as it wades along.
Phlox grow pink and feral on the roadside, with trees all about and not a house in sight.
It rains, it rains -- we might even get a quarter of our normal monthly rainfall, it rains so hard. And the first effect on the flowers is that -- they droop. The water is too heavy for them. The poppy blossom, pink or orange or red, tilt to one side, or even upside down. A grand row of rubescent pinks all bends forward, like courtiers bowing in a row. The underside of the petals is actually pink.
The roadside grass rustles, and out pops a groundhog and her five little pups. They go scurrying alongside the road, until the mother notices the cars and chivvies along two the other way -- but three other pups keep on scurrying the same way. I manage to get by, but the threesome start to wander over the road, and the cars stop.
Roses, roses everywhere. Single roses with enormous deep red petals; roses like the sunrise, a ruddy peach shade in bud and lightening to yellow; roses that are yellow with red fringes to their petals newly blown, and turn to white with pink fringes; pure white roses, single, double, and multiple, some turning dingy with age and others as pure white when the petals fall as when they open; little sweethearts of roses, yellow or orange or pink; red roses that turn purple with age. The only downside is the wind, which means only at moments do you smell the sweetness.
Rain, rain, beautiful rain. Even if it does cease to produce the peculiar, heavy, post-rain mugginess as the hot air draws up all the water to hang as humidity -- even if some of the garden was the lee of the bushes and so left dry. Even if it was torrents on the way home, making driving difficult, especially since the last stretch was as it ended, and I walked out of the car into bright sunlight.
My garden is filled with experiments, to see what will grow here. And some are showing a distinct tendency to regard the night as sleep times. There's a daisy-like orange flower that closes up its petals; there's blue-eyed grass; there's the moss roses in flame and pink and yellow.
The cloudburst had gone by the time I went out and drove home, but the clouds were still gray and filling the sky, and as I parked, I saw a rainbow, a arc reaching up from the horizon in its delicate shades.