Overcast and damp. A robin on the leg of an upturned burn barrel, looking for worms—behavior familiar from its unrelated New World namesake.
Three sparrows cling to the suet feeder, spooking at the sound of a dove’s wings. A wren pours out his liquid call from a neighboring roof.
Intermittent sun. A large butterfly blunders into the back of the garden and just as quickly disappears again.
Cloudy but with a patch too bright to look at. A carrion crow calling at the top of the ash tree suddenly adds vocal fry, like a local teen.
Within the white ring of she-loves-me, she-loves-me-not, the Fibonacci spirals of yellow florets—a fly’s unlikely carpet.
Watching the ox-eye daisies slowly open, like the sun glimpsed after days of clouds—so predictable and yet such a thrill.
Sparrows crowd in around the small birdfeeder, but only the two dominant ones get to eat—along with a pigeon, showered in spillage below.
Sunny and warm. The neighborhood is quiet this morning: no barking dog, no builders. A single swift circles high overhead.
Sunny with the howl of power saws. Sparrows carry off the suet one beakful at a time. Some sort of heron flies over, long legs trailing behind.
From a construction crew down the block, shouted commands in a language I don’t know interspersed with the universal language of hammers.