This time of day, I can depend on my neighbor across the street to turn on his lawn sprinklers, while the sun is yet slanting down over his roof, and the arching drops of water catch the light, flinging it in changing patterns against the green backdrop of bushes lining his fence. One plant among them now sports flowers of a deep blue, shading toward purple. When wet, they begin to glow. The sprinkler sprays collide now and then, forming small clouds of mist which drift in the bright air, briefly flashing bits of rainbow color. A faint scent of damp lawn and brush drifts to my shady corner.
We are enjoying almost the last of the cherries. Of the few remaining on the tree, many are withering now, but those which are still plump and smooth are at their darkest and sweetest. They are like small nuggets of stored sunshine and rain, perfect for savoring in the long evenings spent watching the waxing moon emerge as the sky turns dark. The jasmine scent is now gone, replaced by the overly-sweet smell of gardenias. The small, white flowers are the essence falsity, their virginal paleness belied by their wanton perfume. They are the perfect flowers for the nights of July, the heat of their cloying fragrance hanging in the air, as persistent as a seductive, shameful thought.
