Cloudy and cool. When the sun comes out, the robin rouses himself to poke in the dirt along the wall, his own breast redder than the bricks.
Bright and breezy. A large dragonfly zips back and forth above the gardens. The rapid chirping of a car alarm from the next street.
The rain is past, but slugs still roam the yard in packs like slow-moving wolves. More cream-colored roses have opened. It’s quiet.
I sit outside between showers. A rumble of thunder off to the north. An electric saw sinks its teeth into something with a howl.
In the blue sky, the downward dog of a moon just past the clothesline. I take my apple core to the compost, a dark chaos too hot for worms.
The dog lies panting in the sun in her fur coat. When a pigeon lands on the scorched grass, she rushes at it, then pees where it had sat.
The first morning of our first true heat wave of the year. Dozens of gulls circle high overhead, black-tipped wings like translucent blades.
Overcast and cool. I lean out over the grass to cut my hair: a rain of white tufts. The aging terrier trots out and begins to eat them.
The first roses to open after the deadheading have already collapsed. In the shady back corner, yellow hypericum dangles over the compost.
Waiting for the forecast rain, we watch the sky: dark clouds, the arabesques of swifts, a grey feather floating down like a petal of ash.