![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Because I woke up early I got the back yard watering out of the way this morning. The sun was still mostly hidden behind the trees, so I had cool shade as I watered the jasmine and the rose bushes, the lilac bushes, the small patch of green lawn that remains under the walnut tree, and the shrubs along the back wall of the house. I had to stand in the glare as I watered two of the oleanders, but the other three were still in shade.
The half dozen blossoms that appeared on the trumpet vine this year are gone, but the leaves are still deep green and flourishing. The ivy in the back corner of the yard is looking rather shabby. The lamb's ear stalks are drying out, and the clumps of thick, blue-gray leaves around their bases appear dusty even when they are wet. Along the fence the ground cover survives, though it is a bit thin. The trio of Italian cypress trees appear healthy enough, though as always they don't seem to be growing very much. They are just stunted versions of their robust Mediterranean ancestors.
Everything else is dry and brown— the unwatered lawn, the back half of the yard beyond the jasmine hedge where weeds grow through the gravel every year— there it looks like summer in real California, the sere residue of spring now littered with a scattering of oak leaves fallen early, desiccated by the heat. The irrigated suburban fringe surrounding it seems an intrusion.
But the task of keeping the intrusion alive a few more days is done, so this evening I will have only the front yard to deal with. That can wait for nightfall, after the day's heat begins to dissipate. And now I am writing an entry, so watering will be my only task (other than making dinner) after I return from shopping. I'll have a whole evening in which to vegetate! Of course I got up so early this morning that I'll probably end up falling asleep as soon as I get home, but I guess a nap is better than scurrying about to get things done.
And, for once, readers will be able to read Sunday Verse on Sunday, instead of waiting until Monday because I post so late in the evenings from this western outpost, mere hours from where the clock's days end.
( Sunday Verse )
The half dozen blossoms that appeared on the trumpet vine this year are gone, but the leaves are still deep green and flourishing. The ivy in the back corner of the yard is looking rather shabby. The lamb's ear stalks are drying out, and the clumps of thick, blue-gray leaves around their bases appear dusty even when they are wet. Along the fence the ground cover survives, though it is a bit thin. The trio of Italian cypress trees appear healthy enough, though as always they don't seem to be growing very much. They are just stunted versions of their robust Mediterranean ancestors.
Everything else is dry and brown— the unwatered lawn, the back half of the yard beyond the jasmine hedge where weeds grow through the gravel every year— there it looks like summer in real California, the sere residue of spring now littered with a scattering of oak leaves fallen early, desiccated by the heat. The irrigated suburban fringe surrounding it seems an intrusion.
But the task of keeping the intrusion alive a few more days is done, so this evening I will have only the front yard to deal with. That can wait for nightfall, after the day's heat begins to dissipate. And now I am writing an entry, so watering will be my only task (other than making dinner) after I return from shopping. I'll have a whole evening in which to vegetate! Of course I got up so early this morning that I'll probably end up falling asleep as soon as I get home, but I guess a nap is better than scurrying about to get things done.
And, for once, readers will be able to read Sunday Verse on Sunday, instead of waiting until Monday because I post so late in the evenings from this western outpost, mere hours from where the clock's days end.
( Sunday Verse )
