The mock orange petals have not so much fallen as blown away. The sky darkens. In the next garden, a wood pigeon hoots like an owl.
The new geranium has opened its first two flowers: deep purple trumpets. A bee flies in and swiftly out again, but the rain isn’t as picky.
Sunny, breezy and cool: a classic English summer day. Re-potting a small bay tree, I displace a sleeping snail from the potting soil.
During a bright period, a blackbird gorges on the neighbor’s cherries, swinging from a lower branch, yellow bill drilling the red fruit.
A mouse climbs the wall behind me and disappears into the neighbors’ garden. The lonely dog at the end of the block barks on and on.
Chased in by the rain again, I watch from the kitchen as sudden sunlight blazes on wet slate roofs, black clouds behind.
The rain stops. I go outside to read, a builder hammers, and the next-door neighbor steps out for a smoke. Then a raindrop lands on page 43.
5:30 AM. The torrential rain past, tits and sparrows crowd the feeders. The neighbor’s cherry tree sways under the raids of wood pigeons.
The resident terrier braves the rain to charge at a pigeon. A bus stopping in the next street makes a sound like a sigh.
A house sparrow fills up at the suet feeder then immediately regurgitates it for an offspring, who begs with open bill and wings a-tremble.