scenes of summer

A mourning dove is perched on the hood of my car, gives me the eye, and flies off. But I have never seen one so particolored, gray and brownish and white and black in speckles.

It rains, it rains, it rains -- it thunders -- and the moss roses explode in growth, and in blossoms of pink, or red, or snow white. Other flowers flourish, but nothing so much as the moss roses.

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