One morning, the garden is filled with sprouts. Indeed, a crocus shows not only green but the pale cream of its buds.
Against the peach and rose of sunset, with purple clouds against it, fly flocks of birds -- backlit and dark like the purple clouds, too small with distance to know their kind -- vast flocks, in a cross-stitch of lines, and every time I think they have gone by, another clump flies back.
I ready myself for bed and looked out the window and when did it snow? The lawn is the rough, with grass still visible below, and peeking up from, the snow, but snow covers it all, without my having noticed its fall.
A skein of geese descends toward the pool. Their necks pull up into an S-shape, and their wings cup the air, and they make the most ungainly sight, settling down.
A patch of crocuses blooms violet on the south-facing wall of one house. Another one blooms, orange, on a north-facing wall -- but there is a hillside, north, to shelter it, and the way the townhouses are staggered, it gets the full western sun.
Willows are bright with new bufs -- but some are only bright on the lower boughs. Above is dark and dead.
A single bird sings its note as I walk into the building.
An escaped crocus blooms alone and violet in the middle of a lawn.