From a nearby window, an alarm clock beeps on and on. Such a relief when it finally stops! A fitted sheet on the line fills with wind.
Hard not to hear them as male and female, the gasoline-powered and electric chainsaws sharing a noisy meal three gardens away.
A goldfinch pulls seeds from a steel tube and I remember a dream: the woods are a city, tree buildings busy with the lives of strangers.
A breeze keeps opening my notebook and riffling the cover on the bicycle behind me as I sit listening to the small grumbles of my stomach.
Back in London after a week away, the garden is full of rain. Then goldfinches bring their yellow to the thistle seed feeder. Then sun.
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.