PRETTY, UHHH, WHATEVERS

Whenever I step outside with Moon-the-Dog, I generally heed that old dictum leaned in Scouting to "be prepared," by grabbing a camera outfit I keep handy to the door. You never know when some photographic moment might present itself—but you can always be sure of missing out on some marvelous images should you fail to plan for the unexpected.

Even if that special photogenic opportunity fails to materialize, I can at usually amuse myself looking high and low, at everything from clouds to dirt clods, searching for some juxtaposition of form and texture, an arrangement of light and shadow, flower, bird, or sparkle of sunlight upon the river's moving surface—and thus keep pleasantly occupied long enough for Moon to have her necessary time rambling around the yard.

I know it sounds paradoxical, but sometimes I get so busy looking, I don't really see what I'm photographing. The framing and focusing transpires almost mechanically while my mind wanders to the next shot. Often, therefore, when I upload my images to the computer, my first thought is surprise: Who took that?  

The image above prompted such a reaction. Of course I knew I'd made the shot—even vaguely remembered doing so. But I didn't remember it looking nearly so dramatically colorful and interesting through the viewfinder as it now did on my Mac's screen. Moreover, I had no idea what the plant was, though I knew it was growing in the bed beside the front door. I promptly went out and had a better look.

Yup, same plant, or plants, as there are two set close together. Which spawned another mystery. I didn't remember planting them. Strange. Plus, even with a longer, closer look, I still couldn't decide what sort of plants they were.

At first I considered one of the various yuccas we have scattered about. Then I wondered if they might be lilies, since there are lots of them around, too. I've now settled on iris as the most likely candidate, which may or may not be correct.

The truth is…I just don't know. Maybe when Myladylove returns from New Orleans tomorrow she can supply the answers to both what they are and how they got there. Otherwise, I hope they bloom—providing they haven't been flummoxed by this year's on-again, off-again version of spring.  

And if they don't? As Shakespeare observed: "A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet." And these sword-like vernal green leaves with their dramatic purple undertones—identity yet unknown—remain just as pretty.