I can hear the wet-clinging strokes of the paint roller.
The back and forth, the up down; I can hear the spreading of the new white, covering the old white, yellowed with age.
She is painting the bedroom, while I listen to news, and write, and prepare for work.
My cat is watching the city from atop the couch; in the picture window.
Sunlight brushes the lilies in the boulevard.
A cool wind is blowing through the peonies, the dark green leaves are just bushes now; having dropped the soft petals, from their pendulous flowers.