The first purple irises are opening along the rock wall, their three petals descending like the landing gear on spaceships.

In the tall grass beside the road, two yellow iris—last survivors of that phalanx planted 30 years ago, when we still dreamt of order.

After decades of segregation by color, the irises in my garden seem to have interbred: beside the porch, yellow petals with purple wings.

Warm, humid, and overcast. In the side garden, the first twelve yellow irises opened in the night. Small flies walk all over my legs.