Fourth of July weekend is bittersweet for summer's romantics — a celebratory inflorescence with family and for country at the height of the season, while the birds are nesting and the days run long, but a hinge on which two months quickly swing before Labor Day and summer's close.

The sight of the daylily, whose bloom is reserved for this median just after the solstice, reminds us of the beauty in finiteness, in distinct time and place.

A cool morning, a forest, some sunlight; a masterpiece of nature.

My compliments to those who made it possible.

Yesterday's forecast was correct — to a point. I took my evening walk near sunset and as I made my strides a small storm crept along north and west of North Olmsted on a steady northeast course.

Before I left, the remnants of the day's events had yet to take their leave.

I stepped out of my building, carrying my camera on a walk for the first time in two years, and turned to catch the storm — which through distance appeared sutured to the horizon.

About one-third through my regular circuit, I pass a stopped-up swail that must once have drained beneath the main road that borders the slopes into the valley. Choked with algae, the place is a likely nesting ground for mosquitoes — and predatory bullfrogs or not, I often wonder what good a boxed-in wetland could possibly provide. Last night I could confirm beauty.

Light falls on this place at dozens of different angles, different aspects. I will return.

As I circled around the tiny, two-street, hook-shaped neighborhood, I framed a stalwart flag against the storm, now close and winsome; a burst of lightning here or there.

The uplifts passed at a safe distance, though not too far for a growl.

"Where are the thunderstorms we heard forecast last night and this morning?" I heard called for question as I returned to the office from lunch. The weatherman had, indeed, predicted bad and even severe weather; blue sky and tiny cumulus vaults told us otherwise.

Twenty minutes later, with hardly a trace on radar, science was vindicated.

It was a thundershower, pelting us with sky-straddling thunder, heavy rain and winds at twenty miles per hour. Isolated, it went as quickly as it came.

The evening half over, nothing is visually in line to pass over us — but the forecast insists. I'll take heed.

Discrete thunderstorms rolled through the Great Lakes yesterday and while none of them hit my locality they dominated the sky from early afternoon.

The sky cleared before sunset but the heat and humidity remained. There will be thunder, lightning and rain before cool air follows blue skies.

Saturday's weather was unsettled but purposeful and magnificent, expressions changing several times an hour as rain clouds moved past in succession.

Of all nature's inventions, Providence was wisest to have made equilibrium.

Like nearly everyone else, I prefer to sleep through dawn but this morning left me no choice — so I decided not to miss an opportunity.

What will a good cup of coffee bring to a man on scant sleep? Nothing but improvement.

I enjoy winter but I don't long for it on the other side of the year as I do for spring and summer. Yet when confronted with each season's virtues — the cold, stillness of one and the warm, colorful bounty of the other — I'm tempted into wishing for the moment to stretch, the day to last forever. I wouldn't be the first man, of course, because those before me invented the photograph.

The green is generous, now.