spring the sweet
May. 22nd, 2023 10:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marycatelliIn the gray daylight, the true pink of a blossoming cherry harmonizes sweetly with the deep pink of a crab apple.
Among the violas of the law, there are not only red ones, but ones that are white with yellow faces -- one with a touch of violet on the one petal.
A lone tulip is a pure, clear red like a ruby.
Wandering along for the blossoms, cherry, apple, crabapple, dogwood -- ah, the lilacs are out! We are rising into full spring.
With the leaves sprouting on every tree, a sky in delicate gray hangs over a delicate patchwork of greens as the hills flourish.
A rainy day has roadsides flourishing in silvery brush and vast spreads of budding wild mustard, the mounds rising and sinking on slopes, the yellow visible but not burst out. As the road rises in the hills, the flowers sink, until, as if time went backward, all the daffodils blossom, cream or yellow or orange, with tulips in their number in fiery purple and fiery oranges, pinks pure and in patterns with white, vivid mixes of yellows and whites and red.
The morning sunlight shines through the fledging trees, with all shades of trees where leaves stand alone or crisscross, like a stained glass of green in endless motion.
The first iris of the neighborhood blooms. A deep dark brown, albeit a reddish one. Burgandy, perhaps? (Others are budding, but irises are seriously spread out in blooming.)
A bird flits up into a tree: black feathers, except for a streak of orange revealing it to be an oriole. Minutes later, it perches looking at the window, its head black and its belly orange, such that at a glance you might take it for a robin.
It seemed that all the forget-me-nots had perished in the winter, but a tiny little one put forth half a dozen blue blooms.
Down in the valley, irises bloom ice-white, and up on the slope, the violet has been added to the blooming.
Sunlight shines through a leafing maple so that the deep red leaves glow like rubies.
A grackle hops along, glittering iridescently in bronze, from beak to tail. That's a new combination.
A sunrose blooms in orange, a lone flower, and here and there, the ice plant has blooms in the garnish, fiesta shade. Both put forth more flowers by the day. The pink sunrose puts forth its first bloom when there are already a dozen in orange.
A dark, drab little bird, flitting around, arcs upward and flares in orange before settling on a branch. There, an oriole can shift and turn from shadow to fire and back just fidgeting. A cardinal flits through the scene, always a scarlet bit.
A maple, laden with seeds, is rosy red in the sunlight from their tinge. Others are green or yellow or pale pink, or even drab, but not this one.
A dingy black bird hops from branch to branch to sunlit branch, where its head flashes blue, and its back violet with iridescence.
Flap. Flap. Flap. A heron flying low over the hillside flies lazily, or perhaps wearily, slow beats of wing.
A bird silhouetted against the sky soars with all its wing feathers extended and as clearly spread as the fingers of a hand.
A mourning dove, its feathers ashes of roses shading here and there to soft browns and gray, perches on a birdbath, carefully watching that the passer-by passes by.
A young oriole looks ambiguous. Its tail is not the brilliant orange, and its back is all mottled black and orange and even brown, with the black and orange both muted.
Great flocks of daisies spread, white, over the median and the roadsides.
A tidy little gray bird with a black streak hops along, jumping on a fallen branch as it looks, eying this and that.
An oriole perches on the branches, close enough to see the flecks of white along its black wings. Moments later, it's closer, banging against the window and fluttering so the sound of its feathers brushing glass can be heard. Fighting its reflection perhaps.
Two goldfinches flit through the air, yellow and black, looking like bullets when they pull their wings in, flapping.
Buttercups all but glow in their simple yellow cups gleaming among the grass.
Sunlight slanting over the garden, the poppies, the sunroses, the evening primrose, the avens, and the colors as they glow: pink and coral and orange all alight.
The oriole cavorts on a branch, its back and belly shifting around so that in one moment it looks all black, and the next all orange.
Its scent betrays a rose bush is in full bloom, all the pink double flowers open and filling the air with sweetness.
It rains. The sun shines brilliantly but still the rain falls, silvery, in great sheets. The road remains dry as the water dissolves into air before wetting it.
Among the violas of the law, there are not only red ones, but ones that are white with yellow faces -- one with a touch of violet on the one petal.
A lone tulip is a pure, clear red like a ruby.
Wandering along for the blossoms, cherry, apple, crabapple, dogwood -- ah, the lilacs are out! We are rising into full spring.
With the leaves sprouting on every tree, a sky in delicate gray hangs over a delicate patchwork of greens as the hills flourish.
A rainy day has roadsides flourishing in silvery brush and vast spreads of budding wild mustard, the mounds rising and sinking on slopes, the yellow visible but not burst out. As the road rises in the hills, the flowers sink, until, as if time went backward, all the daffodils blossom, cream or yellow or orange, with tulips in their number in fiery purple and fiery oranges, pinks pure and in patterns with white, vivid mixes of yellows and whites and red.
The morning sunlight shines through the fledging trees, with all shades of trees where leaves stand alone or crisscross, like a stained glass of green in endless motion.
The first iris of the neighborhood blooms. A deep dark brown, albeit a reddish one. Burgandy, perhaps? (Others are budding, but irises are seriously spread out in blooming.)
A bird flits up into a tree: black feathers, except for a streak of orange revealing it to be an oriole. Minutes later, it perches looking at the window, its head black and its belly orange, such that at a glance you might take it for a robin.
It seemed that all the forget-me-nots had perished in the winter, but a tiny little one put forth half a dozen blue blooms.
Down in the valley, irises bloom ice-white, and up on the slope, the violet has been added to the blooming.
Sunlight shines through a leafing maple so that the deep red leaves glow like rubies.
A grackle hops along, glittering iridescently in bronze, from beak to tail. That's a new combination.
A sunrose blooms in orange, a lone flower, and here and there, the ice plant has blooms in the garnish, fiesta shade. Both put forth more flowers by the day. The pink sunrose puts forth its first bloom when there are already a dozen in orange.
A dark, drab little bird, flitting around, arcs upward and flares in orange before settling on a branch. There, an oriole can shift and turn from shadow to fire and back just fidgeting. A cardinal flits through the scene, always a scarlet bit.
A maple, laden with seeds, is rosy red in the sunlight from their tinge. Others are green or yellow or pale pink, or even drab, but not this one.
A dingy black bird hops from branch to branch to sunlit branch, where its head flashes blue, and its back violet with iridescence.
Flap. Flap. Flap. A heron flying low over the hillside flies lazily, or perhaps wearily, slow beats of wing.
A bird silhouetted against the sky soars with all its wing feathers extended and as clearly spread as the fingers of a hand.
A mourning dove, its feathers ashes of roses shading here and there to soft browns and gray, perches on a birdbath, carefully watching that the passer-by passes by.
A young oriole looks ambiguous. Its tail is not the brilliant orange, and its back is all mottled black and orange and even brown, with the black and orange both muted.
Great flocks of daisies spread, white, over the median and the roadsides.
A tidy little gray bird with a black streak hops along, jumping on a fallen branch as it looks, eying this and that.
An oriole perches on the branches, close enough to see the flecks of white along its black wings. Moments later, it's closer, banging against the window and fluttering so the sound of its feathers brushing glass can be heard. Fighting its reflection perhaps.
Two goldfinches flit through the air, yellow and black, looking like bullets when they pull their wings in, flapping.
Buttercups all but glow in their simple yellow cups gleaming among the grass.
Sunlight slanting over the garden, the poppies, the sunroses, the evening primrose, the avens, and the colors as they glow: pink and coral and orange all alight.
The oriole cavorts on a branch, its back and belly shifting around so that in one moment it looks all black, and the next all orange.
Its scent betrays a rose bush is in full bloom, all the pink double flowers open and filling the air with sweetness.
It rains. The sun shines brilliantly but still the rain falls, silvery, in great sheets. The road remains dry as the water dissolves into air before wetting it.