|heady cotton-candy blossoms|
It’s kind of weird, how you can be out walking on a drizzly day; hood pulled up to keep your head dry, because no self-respecting Portlander totes an umbrella, when out-of-the-gray you are blown-away with color. Grape Hyacinth, with their heady aromas, stately tulips in painterly hues. Crocus petals have faded since they debuted earlier than daffodils and obviously before the showy blossoms clinging to the flowering plum and cherry trees.
Now, living in Central Oregon, the color-timing is different; there's very little gray since the sun reigns absolute 300 plus days a year.
Even so, I’m amazed by what a puff of wind can do – scattering clouds and drops of rain that have been captured in the creases of leaves and pine needles. The best treat is when you pass under a tree whose branches are weighted with blooms looking like confections and you find yourself in a shower of pink snow. Petals tumbling and drifting on whispers of air. It’s beautiful and enchanting – a fairytale moment.
spring is full of such spaces in time; pretty little vignettes to step in
|showered in pink|
looking into the eye of the rabbit,
he stares a knowing glance as a bicycle chain clinks;
the rider is gearing down
soft rain is spilling on the morning, amplifying the tire noise
an iron chair with a mosaic back sits at the edge of the tree smothered with cherry blossoms
a stone fire pit is nearby, charred remnants in the grate
birds chirp a tune, punctuated by squawking jays and the dull roar
of a jet overhead
gutters gargle the sky liquid, allowing drips to collect in makeshift bowls pebbled-out in the dirt
the commuter bus with its distinctive sound drones by, only to stop
selected blank moments are filled with the chatter of school kids
a breath of wind scatters the blooms
it was like a shower of pink snow; perfect petals tossed in the grass
rabbit blinks in understanding;
hopping off silent, unaware
Pretty in pink ...
Pretty in pink ...
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