Looking at the pattern of wet spots on the table. One could classify showers based on whether they last long enough to apply one full coat.
A tiny, dark spider races over the flannel hills of my shirt—which, I now notice in this storm light, is more purple than gray.
Spitting rain. A small flock of great tits in the elder, jockeying for a chance at the suet. Below, a quiet robin blends into the dirt.
Cold and drizzly. Two feet from the hypericum’s last yellow petals, the honeysuckle’s first yellow leaf.
Two wood pigeons sitting on a chimney pot take flight, circle the gardens, and return to their perch, sheltering under a TV aerial from the fast-flying clouds.
A spliff-shaped cloud drifts past. The rose bush reminds me of the old blues lyric: The way you wear them dresses, the sun keeps shining through…
The garden has almost dried off after a brief rain shower. A snail on the watering can retracts its eyes.
In the otherwise uncluttered blue, the moon like a half-slice of fruit. An orange cat threads the ivy atop the neighbor’s fence.
The usual parade of jets overhead. On the brown lawn, my partner is painting her climate strike sign green and blue.
Yet another clear, cool day. A goldfinch sings, almost through his molt. Even the builders’ power saw sounds autumnal.