The Saturday laughter of children. Drizzle seems as if it’s impending, but there’s only a light breeze and the distant whisper of trains.
Cool and clear. Orange firethorn berries glow in the sun. Soon to leave this autumn for another, I hear a wistful note in the wren’s song.
The clouds start to thin by late morning. Under the patio table, where a snail wandered all night, silvery lacework begins to shine.
Overcast and cold. From over the eastern wall, raspberry runners grope for new earth. From over the western wall, the long burble of a wren.
Hazy and still—all the builders seem to be done. A robin lands in the firethorn four feet away and fixes me with a dark, unreadable eye.
The rosebush is tinged with a bit of rose: leaves on a new sprout. Across the way, a mapgie hops to the top step of a ladder and flies off.
Sunrise illuminates the hidden rooms of the elder tree. In one, a blackbird grooms, starting the day with the taste of its own feathers.
The soft, liquid song of a robin. A snail trail glistens at the edge of the step. The neighborhood God-botherer warbles far off-key.
I carry a dry chair into the drenched garden. Elderberries dot the ground and raindrops dot the elder. A sudden shuffle of woodpigeon wings.
Breezy and cool. A gray down feather floats up and settles on a leaf of the elder tree. A blackbird’s orange beak peeks around the trunk.