marycatelli: (sunset)
Bright yellow in the lawn -- hawkweed in bloom -- and another yellow, the same shade, on the back of a bird, also with black, that jerks its head about to look at me.

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.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
Where the pinks and the moss roses were planted, I can clearly see what is the new growth. Even when it's not a more sprightly shade of green, it perks up like nobody's business.

A gray squirrel with a red tail! All right, more of an amber shade, but distinctly ruddy and a sharp contrast.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
In a clearing in the road-side forest, two deer graze. They look little larger than dogs in the evening light.

The trees glow when the sunlight is behind them, green or red from the new leaves, too sparse yet to block it.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
The dwarf iris came so early that the first glimpse of the blue is as as the snow melts away.

A great paddling of ducks are swarming by the roadside, just where the bridge crosses the brook. Were they spread over a fairly large pond, they might not look impressive, but dozens of ducks show not an inch between them, and there's no sign of any food attracting them -- a couple start down the brook as I drive by.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
There, in the blue sky, are the puffy white clouds -- and one, too smooth on the sides and rounded, though the same mix of white and blue -- the gibbous moon, not the clouds. But even in broad daylight it had the same enormous looming effect, larger by far than it will be at zenith.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
Crows, crows, crow, cawing away, flocking and flying in the sunset, filling up the air.

Opening the window on a New Year reveals leafless trees, grass still green but growing dingy, and a sky of lumpish gray clouds.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
Morning sunlight on the Japanese maples is splendid, making the leaves glow like pure rubies.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
The first full flock of autumn -- the stand of trees not showing a wing, but all a-twitter, and more birds perched on the wires on a nearby radio station

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marycatelli: (sunset)
Butterflies flit about the garden, some large and black, set with a few flecks of orange, others milky white, from one flower to the next.

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summertide

Jul. 28th, 2016 10:19 pm
marycatelli: (sunset)
I wonder what it is, orange blossoms with multifoliate petals, looking cultivated and not wild, but growing up in the concrete of one of those parking lot islands, where feral grass forces its way through concrete and its cracks.

A garden of sweet peas, with the pink flowers blossoming wherever the vine had managed to find itself a trellis -- mostly of other plants -- and across the way, escaped sweet peas do the same on the wild plants.
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marycatelli: (sunset)
Wild mustard flowering free -- lacy yellow blossoms gathering here and there along the roads -- though once, when driving by, I see the yellow and then blink, because it's in graceful and simple cups -- buttercups.

Bright and simple, the daisies fill the growing grass with their white flowers.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
On the lawn to one side of the road, the scilla is blooming, its blue cup like flowers so thick than there is more blue than grass on a large stretch of the lawn.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
The rainfall filled up the stream so that the waterfall leaps from the cliff in great billows of foam -- of rather dingy yellowish whiteness, from the flood bearing off the earth.

A piebald robin, with one wing and half its tails white -- and a few white feathers flecked among the red, as well. When it turns, you see that quarter of its neck is white as well.

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rare day

Mar. 9th, 2016 02:48 pm
marycatelli: (sunset)

you don't even get one every year. . .

But I turned off the heat and opened the windows in order to warm up the place.


It'll be to cool it down soon enough, but this year they had the one where it warmed up outside faster than inside

marycatelli: (sunset)
Swans, off-white, bob on the lake, which gleams silvery from the clouds. One has its head tucked back as it sleeps; one is preening, so its head can only sometimes be seen.

The median dips down into a valley, and so the hawk perched on a tree there is level with the cars streaming by, as it watches with a stern gaze.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
Burning bush is ill-named. It is a pure, ruby red, not flame-like at all. And as autumn wears on, it fades to a pink and pale yellow that look more spring-like than autumnal.

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marycatelli: (sunset)
The sky is a mass of cloud, a layer of dark gray and dark ivory, with the sunlight not even brushing the bottom of the cloud from the setting sun. But across the street, past the row of houses, over the tree tops, flies a flock of small birds. Wheeling this way and that, their wings flapping. And as they turn at the right angle, the sunlight glances through their translucent wings. Bright as sunlight from polished metal, or glass -- or even as if the wings glowed in their own right.
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marycatelli: (sunset)
Even as I walk down the street the moon shifts in color, from red to rich orange to gold, and even a very pure shade of gold.

The morning glories lace around the mailbox, and in the morning, the blooms are velvety purple.

In the roadside green of forest, a narrow blaze of red is almost rusty in its glory.
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marycatelli: (sunset)
The blue sky is full of white, with the puffy clouds, and the cloudy whiteness that is circumscribed with roundness, because it's the moon -- looming oddly large, considering it's already above the rooftop, and nothing else is in sight -- with the dark parts of it the same blue as the sky.
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