Breezy and cool. A coal tit pulls a seed from the tube feeder and carries it up to a branch to hammer it open, wedged between her feet.
The air is autumnal and smells of cigarettes. My partner talks politics in her night clothes. The rose bush is covered with new buds.
Cool and very clear. Even the jet thundering overhead looks porcelain. A small wasp is examining the undersides of the mock orange leaves.
Rain just past, we study the slugs gliding across the patio and decide they must be green-soled slugs. A coal tit lands on the empty feeder.
On this cat-infested block, it takes a moment to register a baby’s cry. Next door, another odd sound—it’s so hot, the natives are showering.
The eddying breeze edits the sound of the carnival a mile away: snippets of drums, singing, sirens. Firethorn berries bend low over my head.
Recently turned soil at the back of the garden looks shrink-wrapped as the hot sun glistens on a hundred slug and snail trails.
Warm and hazy. My partner gets out her secateurs to do battle with the neighbor’s wisteria, wiry tentacles stretching over the fence.
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.