Every pit in the porch floor’s paint is stained with pollen. A small samara helicopters past, too young to sprout but not too young to fly.
pollen
The air is so clear, I can make out grains of pollen drifting back and forth against the dark woods. The shrill alarm-calls of a raven.
The porch floor is blotched with pollen. Through the bright-green new leaves, the last few dots of sky are still visible above the ridge.
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I’m off to the U.K., so this will be my last update from the porch until mid-August.
Burglars are advised not to bother trekking all the way up Plummer’s Hollow, as I have nothing of value apart from my books.
The red porch floor is pocked with yellowish green pollen. In the garden, a red crabapple petal is plastered to a witch hazel leaf.
The air is so clear, I can see individual specks of pollen. In the field, the long grass sways under the restless wings of a female harrier.
The green blush deepens on the hillside; shining motes of pollen speckle my laptop screen. A crow flaps up from the black currant bushes.