Out of the corner of my eye I see a bug, and its size grabs my attention -- big even for a bumblebee -- but it flits on to a gladiolus and reveals itself as a hummingbird moth. Once you notice the resemblance, it looks tiny for a hummingbird, though a very large insect.
I water my garden, and a surprised small animal bolts out. For a moment, I am certain, from size, that it's a chipmunk, but it has a tiny little cotton-white tail, and its ears, though minuscule, are large for its form -- and then another baby rabbit springs out and bolts away.
There's a large, thick bush, and the next day, I see a baby rabbit charge over the top of it, barely bending the branches.
The baby rabbits stand very still until I am very close to them. Then , that allows them to double back as they bolt, crossing my path.
A rainy day turns all gray. A road-side meadow is filled grass going to see, and the dingy dead clover flowers, black as they dry out. A few Queen's Anne's lace add no color, and their brightness is too scattered. Even the small but fiery stand of hot pink coneflowers leaves the meadow dingy.
The rushes in the lake are green, of course. A respectable summer green, drab in the rainy day. Still, with the swans floating in the gray, it is not the glorious shades of desaturated that the autumn will bring. Much better a few days later, where in brilliant sunlight, with the sky blue and all the waters the deeper blue of reflections, with the vast stretches of verdant green, and in the center, like a jewel a stand of violet loosestrife.
A flight of birds before the stand of trees, flashing yellow to show all of them are orioles. I have not seen so many orioles in many a year.
There's a pool, sometimes, by the side of the highway. It went utterly dry during the drought, but now it's filled up, with greenery growing thing -- and today, there was a heron standing in it. To my surprise, I had not realized how few standards of size that pool had given me. The heron looked so small that the pool had to be farther off, and larger, than I had realized.
A great spread of Queen Anne's lace turns all the grass bright with whiteness.
Already, in July, the trees nearby have a few leaves turned, to a fluorescent shade of orange or red.
Two groundhogs scuttle across the road ahead of me, their tales fluffed up behind them. One goes straight across. The other pauses half way, looking about -- and does go on before I, or any other car, arrive.