nature in york neighborhood - ava meadows

A weed wilting. Cement bricks lined with moss. The persistence of nature goes unnoticed by the distracted human eye. Not today though. Today I noticed. There’s something quietly defiant about a plant growing out of concrete. It’s abnormally comforting, as it’s equally off-putting. The leaves are weathered and torn as they grow from cement, an act that shouldn’t be possible but somehow is. Plantago asiatica. Native to East Asia, this plant has traveled far, finding refuge in the seemingly inhospitable. Its unassuming presence settles in the cracks where soil barely exists.

A block away from my house stands a house—a purple house. Or is it blue? Maybe both. The walls are painted with an octopus and starfish, their tentacles and arms stretching across the siding. The lawn is overgrown. What caught my attention, though, wasn’t the house or the yard but the rock border running along its edges. I imagine a cool old lady collecting rocks from the beach, carefully choosing each one for its color, texture, or shape. Stained glass stones are scattered, nestled between the larger rocks. They’re worn, their shine dulled by years of rain, but they still sit like pearls, catching the light every once in a while.

The plant in the photo is Lunaria annua, commonly known as the money plant. Lunaria annua was introduced to North America by early European settlers, who valued it for its ornamental qualities and ease of cultivation. The distinctive seed pods, often referred to as "silver dollars," are actually the plant’s siliques—dry, flattened structures that develop after the flowers are pollinated. Each silique has a transparent inner membrane, left behind after the outer layers and seeds have fallen away. These siliques catch the light, giving the plant a subtle, almost metallic appearance. The plant was particularly popular in cottage gardens during the Victorian era. I can see why.

More moss. From a bird’s-eye view, I was drawn to the way it sprawled across the stones, mirroring the patterns of Earth itself. Fractured landmasses divided by rivers and coastlines. Vibrant green threads wind between grey, textured slabs. Theres this way the moss thrives in the cracks, softening the geometry of the stone. These cracks provide the perfect microhabitat—shelter from direct sunlight, retention of moisture, and accumulation of organic matter that supports growth. Their slow but persistent growth mirrors the geological processes they mimic; gradual, deliberate.

Two roses. One pink, the center yellow. The other, a muted peach. Rosa chinensis. As the flowers age, the concentration and composition of anthocyanins can change, leading to shifts in color. The transition from pale pink to darker red may signal maturity to pollinators, optimizing reproductive success. This creates a visual narrative that’s distinct to each bloom, reflecting its interaction with the environment. The faded peach beside the vibrant pink shows this unforced and unembellished passage of time.