The rose’s leaves shine white in the sun. A white butterfly detaches from one of them and zigzags into the sky—the antithesis of autumn.
Overcast and blustery. A tiny caterpillar abseiling down from the elder tree has changed its mind and is slowly, flailingly going back up.
The rain just past, showers keep blowing off the trees. On the patio table, a banquet of drops, each broadcasting the same miniature sky.
Windy and cooler, with fat, fast-moving clouds. A fox appears on the back wall and gazes with seeming wistfulness at our breakfast.
A blackbird probes for worms under the compost dalek, then hops over into the dead grass, gathers a beakful and sets it down again.
The nail gun and its echo. A robin like a magician keeps pulling green caterpillars from the dead grass.
Shirts barely move on the line, sleeves stretched toward the parched earth. A neighbor across the way yells in a language I don’t recognize.
Cloudless and hot. A magpie and a robin sit in different parts of the elder tree, open-eyed but still. The dog moves to the shade.
Hot and humid. A skinny squirrel slinks through the mock orange and elder tree, trailed by the anxious trills of a robin.
Cloudy and cool. Raised voices over the wall—”You always undercut me!” “You don’t even love me!”—drowned out by a jet on its final descent.