Drizzle. From the street, the harsh note of a concrete saw chewing through the sidewalk. The small hydrangea keeps turning more deeply red.
The hydrangea blooms redden on their unobtrusive bush. I think of the wild hydrangeas back home, how they must be glowing in the dark woods.
A juvenile blackbird sits inside the suet feeder, pecking at a ball of fat. A few feet away, the hydrangea’s hallucinatory balls of bloom.
Somehow I’ve failed to notice till now that the small hydrangea next to the rosebush is also in bloom—one low, slightly absurd flower head.