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.
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.
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.