Two geese by the roadside, one standing, one sitting, and then a hint of movement draws the eye to the bit of yellow and brown fluff -- rather a large bit, once you mentally compare the gosling to a duckling, and not the geese.
Abruptly, in the heat, all the trees are turning green, and even with enough to start to veil their boughs. The roadside, seemingly all in a day, turns a solid wall of leaves, even if it is paler here and darker there, and more yellowish over there. The green grows more consistent day by day.
Lilacs that grow by the roadside have their blooms hanging down, looking like bunches of grapes.
The sun shines behind a forest of new leaved trees and they glow with pale, pure green.
The iris starts to open with the evening and is in full bloom with the day, glowing a rich orange.
Daisies fill the roadside with white, though in one stretch they merely stand among the mounds of hop clover all in yellow.
Over the sober green of the marsh, a red-winged blackbird flies, its red patch as brilliant as a ruby.
The sunroses are open, flowers of coppery red, or rosy pink, a simple bloom with five petals about a yellow heart. But with the rain, they all bow down and look like little caps, paler and more gray with the bottoms of the petals showing.
By the marshy roadside ground, feral stands of yellow irises are bright.
A roadside cliff-face has a shrub growing over it, bright with rose-pink blooms. Too swiftly gone to guess what kind of flower.
Ducks. Mallard ducks -- and a whole paddling of ducks with brown heads and brown flecks over their off-white bodies. My google-fu fails me. I still don't know what they are, though I suspect domesticated origins.
Early though it is, one rose bush with its scattered yellow blooms already has many past, losing their flowers.
A stand of irises growing. Some people claim that flowers never clash, but one is hard to describe because it shades from a sort of rusty brown to a touch of brownish violet, but since it's planted among irises of purest white and others of a bright blue and yellow, it can be described in one word: ghastly.
A cheerful hedgerow of simple yellow roses engulfs the western gate with its blooms.
Little mallard -- ducks, ducklings? They're half-fledged, with fluffy down and full feathers both visible, and while still cute, look rather like some kind of relative of a gryphon or a jackelope.
A rose bush in bloom has flowers of the purest white, like fresh fallen snow, without a hint of pink or yellow.
It's snowing! With the updrafts bearing up the delicate, fluffy white -- seeds of cottonwood, in great columns. Not enough to stop small drifts on the ground. . . .
To the west the clouds rise in their intricacy in white, but to the north, the tops of the clouds are tinged with yellow and pink and sink into a grayish blue so pale you have to look with care to be sure that it's not the sky.
Beneath the table outside, with its lattice of metal strips, spots of light dance on the cobweb rippling in the breeze.
A squirrel is sidelit by the rising sun, and its body is so dark as to look like it's black, with the silvery hairs about it; only when it
A hawk cries, over a suburban hillside, just as it would sound over the ruins in an video game. Down the hill, crows caw, and by the stream where the trees are thick, the birdsongs rang from musically pure notes, through rougher calls, to ones sounding more like words, and now and again the deep tolling of the mourning dove's coo