a little colour please

Colorful
Besides, a lovely image of coloured vases, or are they water jugs? You decide. They are empty but alive, shimmering such they barely stay within the image’s boundaries. The source is http://www.free-extras.com/images/colorful-1556.htm

I am looking at early spring drab—no colour here, at least not yet. But it will come, as the birds have come, already robins, juncos, a saucy flock of chickadees and sparrows and wrens. The crows have crossed the street to eat corn from our feeder, as have the blue jays, as vocal as ever. A flicker stopped by the other day, but now that her dinner of choice, succulent bugs and other such flying beasties, have awakened to the milder temperatures, the flicker has no need of seed bits, no imperative to lower herself to the common feeder.

Grass is green. Earth-shattering, I know, but I simply had to point it out. Snow has buried last year’s memories of grass for so long, it seems impossible enough that it should recover, but it does. Young weeds, early flowering buds, all eager to breathe and stretch stalk and stem, bark on the elms alive with verdant moss, deep purple of wild violets and orange painted Indians, still just a hint of stirring in the now-warming soil. They dream in colour.

At the back window, a couple of enthusiastic young maples are just beginning to blush red to the tips of stretching branches, eager to be on with the season, to burst forth the season’s crop of leaves and keys. Just now they sigh in the breeze, whisper promises to the sun. The youngins’ admire their elders, sky-touching tall, some straight, some bent, all famous now since JRR Tolkien wrote them up, revealed their secrets in his stories of Middle Earth.

riotthill

The trees here conference through the summer months, but if you visit and wander through our forest, you will only see them move at the very side of your vision. They’re too clever to expose their real lives straight on.

I know this has been asked before, but if a blind man cannot see red, can he hear it, taste it, smell it? I can’t, but then I’m not a blind man. But I’m almost certain I can touch the sky, though they tell me it’s invisible, in spite of the fact my eyes insist on seeing blue. Sometimes cloudy, sometimes so dark it fools me into thinking it is black, but that’s just the stars, white, red, green, blue, orange, yellow twinklers winking back at me, stealing colour from the midnight sky.

I’ve yet to see a rainbow this year. This week seems promising, with rain each day as the temperatures climb. From my front porch, there are times when I can see it raining to the south, but northward over the marsh it is dry and dressed fancy with a striped arch of primary colours touching the horizon to east and west. No leprechauns though, nor pots a’ gold.

And just a few words to finish off, we have cats that range from black to calico to almost white, with greys and salmon-beiges for gaiety, the fronds and bracken grown deep green in summer shade, the spruce shine blue, the mushrooms dirty-white to orange, and fields of flowers that bloom in waves from yellow and orange, to white to blue to deep reds and lacy pinks or lilac.

It is indeed a colourful escape from the dusky blue-greys, black and white of winter.

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