After days of raininess but little actual rain, the garden is simultaneously damp and dry. A second tomato has begun to ripen on the stake.
Far above the usual noise of the builders, two rusty hinges squeak and whine: two gulls, an adult and a juvenile, wings opening and opening.
A blackbird sings then eats; a robin eats then sings—both in the elder with its clusters of berries bending lower and lower as they darken.
The rose’s leaves shine white in the sun. A white butterfly detaches from one of them and zigzags into the sky—the antithesis of autumn.
Overcast and blustery. A tiny caterpillar abseiling down from the elder tree has changed its mind and is slowly, flailingly going back up.
The rain just past, showers keep blowing off the trees. On the patio table, a banquet of drops, each broadcasting the same miniature sky.
Windy and cooler, with fat, fast-moving clouds. A fox appears on the back wall and gazes with seeming wistfulness at our breakfast.