Blue sky reflected in pools of rainwater in our seats. A magpie flies out of the elm’s crown with a nasal cry. I’m off to America again.
On the 12th anniversary of starting this record, I squint at unknown flowers 50 feet away in the garden of someone I’ve never met.
Another bright-sky morning that slowly turns white. A shy coal tit waits till all the other birds are gone to launch a sortie on the suet.
The ash tree’s canopy is suddenly threadbare. In the garden, one pigeon keeps chasing all the others off seeds he doesn’t have time to eat.
High gusts of wind salted with rain. Three goldfinches cling like limpets to the thistle seed tube feeder as it careens back and forth.
It stops drizzling by mid-morning; I dry off a chair to sit. The rose bush, I notice, still has at least 13 buds.
No frost yet; the purple geranium still flowers. Reflected sun from an upstairs window illuminates one yellow grape leaf.
Sun through thin clouds. Over the wind, the sound of an electric chainsaw cutting and muttering.
A starling flock leaves the big ash tree all at once, their cacophony turned into a hush of wings. The sun comes almost fully out.
Clear and cold. A contrail feathers in several directions. The dog makes a half-hearted run at a wood pigeon, who takes a half-hearted hop.