Roses are red, violets are blue, come to the House of Blue Bottles, do.

Half a mile northwest as the crow flies stand Tacoma’s fine historic homes.

So it’s in that direction I set my compass for strolling in the early week’s snowfall.

I come upon this tree in a back yard. Can you spot them?

I’ll zoom in.

Now you see them!

And now you see them with one feathered fella determined to state his presence.

A marvelous sight!

Chirping birds concealed by high branches abound. A posse of crows has clearly staked the tree as territory.

A duo of rats with bushy tails — let’s tell it like it is, folks, squirrels are just that when they’re not dinner — plays chase along a limb.

From branches and limbs hangs bottle after bottle like chime pieces without partners. All blue. Only blue. Why would someone hang so many bottles in a tree? They’re empty (so not birdseed sources). Gotta be decorative.

My gaze flutters eastward and lands at the kitchen window. Ah! The answer comes clear as, well, bottle glass?

Seeking to be as unobtrusive as a girl with a camera pointed directly upon your house could be, I follow the southside sidewalk from window to window.

Here a bottle, there a bottle, everywhere window sports a bottle, Old McDonald had a ~~farm~~ bottle, e-i-e-i-o.

Even the outside cellar ledge! …. memorabilia for easy taking by one disinclined toward honesty. (I’m not and thought it a finer photo than stealing.)

And remember, that’s just one side! One side of a Tacoma home bearing henceforth the moniker of the House of Blue Bottles.