Out there

The last ranunculus is crisp on the stem. The same is true of the last red-and-white florist's anemone. We had a couple of firewheels and somebody picked them, which is why we've pretty much abandoned doing anything out front, what with tramplers ("I don't see any flowers" and now you never will), giant dogs wandering at will and dropping their tooth-marked styrofoam-cup toys, which their owners leave where they fall, and bouquet-pickers. A wren is nesting in a pot of old trailing nasturtiums and one geranium slip, which makes it tough to water; we're using an ancient metal watering can with a very long skinny spout. The next-door kitten really does try to catch butterflies, launching herself right into the midst of the lantanas. We haven't seen her succeed, and hope not to. Bachelor buttons and late sweet peas add to the pinks and blues of the delphiniums. Only one oak tree is still dropping spent flowers. The pecan flowers haven't dried yet. For the past three mornings we've heard, but not been able to see, warblers. There are rosebuds. That was a freaky, sustained front after midnight; it woke lots of people around, judging by all the lights and front-porch voices. And I almost forgot to mention that we've spotted one monarch chrysalis. The setting sun shed a ray that fell right on the golden beads.