Fourth of July garden is green and leafy. The only good thing I can say about weeds is that they are also green and leafy and generally blend in. There are pops of red bee balm and hot pink rose campion. The foxglove is dying on bent stalks of seed pods, which I leave in hope of a great new crop. The Lady’s Mantle gently sprawls from under the false indigo, whose blue blossoms fell away long ago. The butterfly bush courageously peaking out of the cracked rock is leafing high and wide, encroaching on what used to be a graceful hollow. The Heptacodium is ranging into everyone else’s space and has forgotten entirely about its commitment to serving as a privacy block from the neighboring garden. The smooth woodland floor of chipped wood is hosting awkward green sprouts aggressively trying to get in the picture.
Hummingbirds feast on bee balm. Some fast flying feathered friend rushed by my shoulder so closely, I jumped. A cat bird landed near my feet and then marched through the mint, releasing a fresh scent into the air. And they are so loud, singing, whistling, tweeting, crying, calling. The birds think they own this place.
The work now is weeding and watering, which is not what I enjoy, so the flowers do not last as long as they might, and the weeds are winning. Grapevine, bad morning glory which offers no flower, poison ivy and bittersweet are thriving. I fear wading in exposes me to diseased ticks. I am going to the beach after I finish my coffee.