New growth on the rose bush: leaves redder than any of its blooms, like the flames from that trash fire that gave it such loving licks.
High gusts of wind. The ash tree—the only tall tree on the block—rocks and sways. A flock of goldfinches hurtles past.
Sun and wind. A rock dove and a wood pigeon jockey for position under the bird feeder, puffing out their chests and cooing aggressively.
A shy coal tit furtively pulls a few seeds from the feeder and flies off. A pigeon flutters in to peck at the ground below, bold as brass.
A few raindrops as my partner assembles a new garden hose. A seed parachute minus its seed circles the patio and flies off.
Clouds and sun. A wood pigeon tries to land on the tube feeder and knocks it to the ground, spilling all its sunflower hearts.
Sparrows crowd the feeders. On the slate roof of the row housing opposite, a pair of magpies are drinking out of the rain gutter.
A molting robin with almost no tail zips across the yard and disappears into the elder tree. The sky’s blue skin scored with contrails.
The neighbor’s push mower purrs and wheezes like some asthmatic, prehistoric beast. A moth flees into our garden, careening back and forth.
A wood pigeon has learned how to eat from the neighbors’ bird feeder by balancing on the adjacent fence, tail fanned out, wings flapping.