A trio of great tits foraging in the shrubbery. A bumblebee flies over, drawing my eye to the swifts circling high against the clouds.
The lonely barking dog goes on and on, day after day. A newly opened rose on a bush I think of as ancient, though it’s younger than me.
Overcast and cold. A European robin lands on a severed limb-end of the elder and casts a critical eye at the pile of withered branches.
From a garden across the way, the desolate barks of a dog locked outside. A breeze showers the table with firethorn blossoms.
The severely pruned elder tree has one green limb, hidden from the arborist by a rampant kerria. Its covert blossoms draw a few tiny flies.
5:00 AM in London: sunrise. My body says 1:00. Parakeets go shrieking from their roost in the neighbors’ ash, crossing the gibbous moon.
Breezy and cool. The yard rings with oriole song. A Cooper’s hawk skims the treetops, wings lit up by the rising sun.
A hen turkey going past the house catches sight of me and freezes. Nervous clucks, then the huge bird taking flight with surprising grace.
Humid and warm—our first truly summer-like day. The wood pewee, who just returned yesterday, drawls his two-note song from the woods’ edge.
Chipmunks chatter alarm up in the woods, and a moment later the squirrels. I remember the terrified bleating I heard at 1:30 in the morning.