That tree right around the corner from my house, that has turned into fireworks of soft orange, yellow and pale green for a while. It's tall and slender and its leaves are as delicate as cobwebs, and it's difficult to imagine anything more beautiful.
A marmot on the campus at sunset, last time I went there. It looked quite at home in the middle of the crowd.
The wheat field next to the Hotel California. I hear it belongs to the nuns who used to run the hospital. So there you are: in the middle of the scarily large buildings and industrial zones, an entire wheat field, with wildflowers on the edge, some still in bloom.
The bridge that crosses from the city centre to the Limoilou and Beauport areas. Turn left and you'll see a large river, no larger than most city rivers. Turn right and it opens straight on the Saint-Laurent, with grey water and ships travelling around. It's almost like reaching the sea.
The last roses of the summer. They smell crisp, like lemonade.
Huge grey squirrels, all around the place. They could eat the squirrels from my home in two mouthfuls.
Orchids inside our office. Without flowers. Tiny daisies outside, in the old cemetary where they tossed the patients from the hospice in unmarked graves. It's becoming a park now, with benches and picnic tables.
Plants I've never heard about, with berries that don't look too edible. It's a strange feeling, shifting from a familiar ecosystem to a mostly unknown one.
Maple leaves, still dark green, spotted with black. No way to tell if it's a disease or the way they normally go in Autumn.
Autumn, already. That came so fast.