upcyled birds

Upcyling is a joyous thing.
 Paint chips snip snapped into birds; cards for my bird loving Aunt.

nearby

Blueberries are ON.

It doesn't take long to fill a pail in the cool slanting light of evening.

Row after row of blueberries, 

some large and tart, some shiny black and tasting of cinnamon.

Nearby, grapes of autumn are soaking up the sweetness of summer.

 

Raspberries are soon gone for another year.

And early apples scent the air.

year by year

For several years I gave my Mom hydrangea for Mother's Day. 

They were always one giant pom pom of petals in a pot like a great, pink topiary, and when they finished flowering, we planted them out in the garden.

Pink they were and pink some remained. 

Others morphed into every shade of purple, changing year by year.

July Garden

Roses; tier upon tier, upon tier. Great heaps and drifts of them.

We didn't plant them. They came with the house, and were already well established when we arrived. Except for a wonderful peach/orange one that is getting more flamboyant every year.

The hollyhock weren't planted by us either, although they are in very different spots now. They drop their seeds willy nilly and have gradually edged their way around the lawn.

Hosta are so amazing. I love all of them. They have giant leaves in every shade of green. These are especially oversized, blue-green with especially generous flowers in lovely lavender.

And, these are garlic scapes. The stems curl and coil like preening geese. A gaggle of garlic geese.

The garden is a wondrous thing in July.

opera

I knew the children would all be in bed when I stopped by one evening.
Drat.
No chance to say hello or goodbye.
But then a head appeared in the window,
popping up like a gopher on the prairie.
I paused, one leg in the car,
almost leaving,
then curved my fingers aloft into a heart sign.
Up in the second story bedroom window, her small hands did the same
I signed 'i love you'
as did she, a little echo
while I blew kisses like a departing opera singer.

on the lookout

She wanted to go to Aldergrove Lake Park.

She wanted to go there BEFORE she went home.

Even if no one else except her wanted to go. 

She asked so earnestly.

She even said please.

Grandmothers love to say yes.

While the others hastened home, we buckled in and headed south.

South, past rows of houses all alike.

And flocks of cars heading east.

Past trucks grumbling and clearing their throats. 

And cedar, fir and alder thickly green.

We were on the lookout for Living Creatures.

I told her about the coyote and the mouse.

About the owl and rabbit.

I reminded her of the time I'd seen a turtle laying eggs and the three giant frogs.

Of the snake and the fish with bulging eyes.

The ducks.

And squirrels.

She clutched my phone.

She was ready to film.

The pond was as flat as glass.

Not a duck in sight.

It wasn't an amphibian day.

Or a reptile one.

Nothing furry dashed by.

Birds sang in shadowed invisibility.

She seemed a bit disgusted. 

"Look," I cried. "A honey-bee!"

Carefully she filmed, standing wisely at a distance.

"Blue dragonflies! See, one just landed on my arm."

A beetle waddled obligingly by.

Slender silver damselflies twirled.

So many Living Creatures.

She filmed and filmed and filmed.

the quality of mercy

"The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings,
But mercy is above this sceptered sway.
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings.
It is an attribute to God himself.
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice."

-William Shakespeare