A gray squirrel with a red tail! All right, more of an amber shade, but distinctly ruddy and a sharp contrast.
On the waysides, the grass has grown so high that it has gone to golden seed, and among it daisies are mingled with yellow hop clover, or purple clover, that peek between the stacks.
Roses have begun, the early ones blossoming as yellow, double or single, or red and packed full of petals, or one where the yellow heart shade to red at the edge, or a flower where the edge of the petal is red, and the center white, and bolts of red shoot down into the whiteness.
Trowel to the rescue! For some reason, the moss roses can re-seed, but the sprouts always grow on the other side of the walkway, (unlike snapdragons, that at least stay on the garden side, even if they do sometimes go downhill). Where they get mowed before they can flower. Caught 'em early this year, and some very silly looking tiny moss roses are now sitting in my garden, heavily watered, and we shall see if they put down roots and survive. (Meanwhile, ants swarmed where I had dug. I hadn't even seen an ant hill.)
A wild turkey stands by the side of the road, its back to it, but -- being a turkey -- able to watch traffic either way. Does not so much as twitch, though it's not a stride from the curb.
How pink the blossoms of the mountain laurel are in my neighbor. Bred in domesticity, I suspect.
Its back black, its head blood red, the woodpecker hops sideways across the tree toward the broken off bough.
On the roadside, where grass has gone to seed, many of the stands are reddish in color. A few are even purplish.
Black and brilliant orange flash before my nose as a Baltimore oriele flits by.
I see a bird ambling across a lawn, too large and long-legged to be even a raven, and it's fuzzy, so I wait while it ambles past the tree that now hides it -- and a full-grown wild turkey ambles out. It takes several moments before the lone, still fuzzy chick ambles after. I go on, and a bit later, as I glance in my rear view mirror, I see the grown turkey alone, crossing the road. It's three quarters across before the chick appears from behind a hedge. It scurried after, gives up, takes wing, and catches up, even getting ahead.
The happiness of bees -- the bumblebees clumped about my bee balm, with its blood-red flowers and its spicy scent, or about the purple spikes of salvia. The honeysuckle -- just in bloom, and its overwhelming sweetness only clear when I stand near, in the still air -- is laden with honeybees.