Overhead, wispy mare’s tails, and on the patio, drifts of feathers where a wood pigeon met its end—undoubtedly the work of a cat.
On a clear, still morning, the wren sounds especially bell-like. A second-floor window opens. I pull my hat-brim down against the sun.
Sunny and cool, with the only contrails for clouds. Four goldfinches glimpsed out of the corner of my eye look like leaves gusting overhead.
Blue seams open and close in the clouds. I remember the view from the plane, that shining white carpet into which we sank.
Back from holiday. A house across the way has sprouted all the impedimenta of a loft conversion: scaffolding, plastic, a roof over the roof.
Four coal tits huddled in the elder tree take turns feeding at the suet balls. Two gardens away, a boy sings a taunting song in Portuguese.
A blue eye opens and closes in the middle of a cumulus cloud. A cabbage white butterfly lands on the unkillable buddleia on the shed roof.
Breezy and cool. A coal tit pulls a seed from the tube feeder and carries it up to a branch to hammer it open, wedged between her feet.
The air is autumnal and smells of cigarettes. My partner talks politics in her night clothes. The rose bush is covered with new buds.
Cool and very clear. Even the jet thundering overhead looks porcelain. A small wasp is examining the undersides of the mock orange leaves.