The wall to the garage that faces the garden is gray. Gray all over, blue-gray, except for a white patch left from some repair work. You can't see that patch here.
Coming out, a sunny day, oh my. The whole wall has turned a new color. A green I would have loved to invent but didn't have to.
Research reveals Richard's bicycle jacket, fluorescent yellow, hanging on the laundry line to dry. Sun angling off its shiny surface onto a once-gray wall.
There used to be a vine on the wall. Virginia Creeper, straying over from the garden bed to the left. You can't see that either. Just the squiggles left from the vine's tendrils after it was pulled down. An old-fashioned look, especially on the wall's soft new color. Sprigged muslin?
Light reflects, color changes. Mind reflects, substance changes.
Sun + microfiber + painted wood + plant detritus = Victorian dress fabric. An equation as nutty and delightful as that which produces an image out of chemicals on paper, or pixels on a screen.
Post Script. Richard tells me that when the jacket is wet, it leaves streaks on his shirt. Not yellow or green, but red. Why indeed.